I squealed frantically at the blood-curdling screech that came from my new fish tank after I turned the filter on. I smelled burning plastic.

Sweat pouring down my face, I went for the plug. It sparked for a split second and gave me a small shock that later resulted in a headache.

The tank was a present for my live-in girlfriend Liz, and when she got home, she was excited as hell.

“Thank you baby. I can’t wait to get fish!” she said. I had done well. The tank seems to be in working order now, and Liz began filling in the gravel, plants and chemicals.

Liz told me we had to wait for the water to condition before getting fish.

“That’s crap,” I said. “My brother has had twenty guppies in a two-liter bottle for four months, and they’re fine.”

As far as I was concerned, all that fish need is clean water. I won a goldfish once at a fair and named it Lucky, so I figured I knew what I was doing. After the electrocution, that was my second mistake.

I went to a local pet store the next day, and while looking at the majestic leopard salamander, I heard a nasally voice behind me that made me jump.

“Can I help you?” The man asked rather aggressively. He was wearing a khaki vest that screamed safari and made me giggle. I could tell he was someone who did not like to joke and who took too much pride in his work. He reminded me of a mad scientist.

I told him I was looking for a couple fish for my tank. He did not look pleased with my response. He expected more from his customers, and despised my aquatic ignorance.

I pointed out one that looked sort of cool and was, most importantly, cheap.

“Ah,” he said. “I see. That is what is known as a tetra, and does well in larger groups of other tetras.”

The fish were about an inch long, and were around three dollars each, so I asked for a few.

He asked what other types of fish I had in my tank. This seemed to matter a lot to him, and I decided to have some fun with him.

“My tank is lifeless,” I responded bluntly. “I have fake plants and gravel, and have never had an aquarium. To tell you the truth, these fish probably won’t make it through the night. Putting bleach in the water will help though, right?”

Appalled, his jaw dropped. I told him I was kidding, but he seemed suspicious.

With a sign, he asked me how large the tank was. I held my hands out to gesture about how big it was.

“No, no, no! How many gallons?” He was getting snippy. I could tell he thought I was wasting his time and keeping him away from the fish that he truly loved.

I told him I had a five-gallon tank. Annoyed, he told me I could only have one fish because my tank was too small for any more.

In utter disbelief, I bought one fish and stomped out. How dare he deny me what I wanted! Even if my intention to buy all of the fish in that place and put them a bathtub with a toaster, I was entitled to purchase them.

At home, I told Liz about the mad scientist, and we decided to demand what we wanted next time. She released the tetra into the tank, and it swam into the plants. I didn’t see it for the rest of the night. We needed more.

Liz and I visited a variety of pet stores and tropical fish specialty shops around town. It turns out that aquarium tenders do not respond well to demands by common folk.

By the end of our outing, we were well-versed in the multitude of fish diseases. And apparently our plants were the wrong type, our gravel was not suitable, the filter was cheap, the heater was faulty and glass tanks are much better than plastic.

Well, I did buy it at Wal-Mart.

No one sold us a single fish.

On our way home we decided to go to the one place we knew they would not care about us or the fish that they held captive. We entered Wal-Mart and walked to the pet section. An employee, probably in his mid-30s, with bloodshot, glassy eyes and the trademark blue vest was walking around aimlessly near us.

“Perfect,” I thought. “We can finally get something.”

It took Liz five minutes to get his guy’s attention, and after that she asked for five fish.

“How big’s yo tank?” he asked. I was stunned. He was the last person I expected to care about his job.

Fed up with the nonsense of these fish gurus, I told him I had a 37.25-gallon tank that I built myself.

“I reinforced the seams,” I added, “and used a special aluminum-armored glass that’s bulletproof. We’re going to breed the fish, and see if we can create a new species of characins and cypranids. It’s exciting, but very secret, so don’t tell anyone.”

He asked about the gravel. “It’s the finest, from Bermuda,” said Liz. After a few more questions, I barked, “Do you think I’m an amateur? I could adopt a kid easier than this!”

He gave up asking questions, and put the fish in three bags with plenty of air. We rushed to the car and sped our way home, hoping not to kill the fish that were such a pain to get.

About 10 minutes away from home, we had a problem. I turned to look at the paper bag Liz was holding up with the three plastic bags inside. The bottom half was entirely soaked.

I turned my head back to the road and I saw that I was going to run into the median. I swerved, and the bottom half of the bag gave way. Two of plastic fish bags burst on the car floor, flooding the interior.

Liz frantically collected the fish, which were flopping all over the floor. By the time we got home, they were not moving very much at all. We thought it was too late.

Liz ran inside and tossed them into the tank. All but the poor little sucker fish, which was supposed to rid our tank of algae, survived.

A few months later, after the situation settled, I realized the fish really were relaxing to look at. We grew to like them, and even named them.

And then the massacre. Liz added too much toxic cleaning solution to the tank, and the fish swam in circles until they floated to the top. She was devastated. I comforted her by telling her it was the same way Lucky died, and that now they were all swimming in the big fish bowl in the sky.

When we ended up getting more fish, we went to a source more compatible with our fish-caring abilities: a carnival.

“Dedicated to Lucky”

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