Can A Pet Store Refuse To Sell You Fish?

The guy at the fish shop has dyed black hair, two full sleeves of tats, gauge earrings, and a face that might have been hooked by a drunk fisherman when he was young.

The first time I saw Fishman, he looked at me suspiciously. Like maybe I was the kind of person who fed pet store fish to the children locked in my attic. I felt hated on sight. Now I wonder if my voice was too loud or my vagina too prominent.

“Hi! I’ve got a 5 gallon aquarium that’s ready for fish,” I said brightly. Which is how I behave around people who hate me. Too friendly, but also a little uppity. Very, I don’t care if you hate me. But I can make you like me if I want to waste my time that way.

I pointed to the fish I wanted, then smiled at Fishman. My toothy, glistening smile has won me several international awards and a very good husband. Surely, this would transform his hate to, at the very least, helpful tolerance.

But he frowned. Which was surprising since I thought he’d been frowning all along.

“These fish need a bigger aquarium to survive,” he said to his feet. He wore dusty black Toms that must have whispered something back because Fishman nodded at them. 

“Oh, it’s okay. I’ve had fish for years. They’ll be fine.” I smiled again. I wanted Fishman and his shoes to know that everything would be okay. So I didn’t tell him it had been 30 years since I’d last owned fish.

The opposite for courage is not cowardice, it is conformity. Even a dead fish can go with the flow. 

Jim Hightower

He stared at the floor. Then said, “You’ll need a few more things to give them a chance.” 

Then he showed me some crap I didn’t have thirty years ago and didn’t need now.

“Look,” and here’s where I became exactly who he thought I was, “I probably had a tank before you were born. It’s all good. I got this.”

He grimaced, slammed the container on the shelf, and walked away.

Just because the fish died within a few months doesn’t mean he was right.

Today, I went back to replace the dead fish. I’m a forgettable middle-aged woman when I’m not smiling, so I didn’t think Fishman would remember me. 

When I saw him, I said, “Hi. I’d like to get one of these fish.”

He squinted above his Megadeath t-shirt, then said, “What’s your setup like?”

When I told him, he frowned. I wondered if he remembered me. And still hated me. Like maybe the last time we met, he made a quick sketch of my face in his “People I Hate” journal, which he reviewed every morning. 

He said, “I can’t let you buy that. You need a bigger tank.” 

I looked at my husband, made a face, then looked at Fishman. Can a pet store refuse to sell you a fish? A $3 fish? Seriously?

“You can’t not sell me the fish!” I squinted. I wondered briefly if I looked like a fish. And if so, did it help?

“It’d be like going from a mansion to a shack. Would you like that?”

I thought this was an odd comparison. Sure, the fish is in a mansion now. But it lives with dozens of other fish, some of whom are probably jerks, and a glaring neon palette. In my house, it’d have a stylish aquarium with one other fish. I was sure I could give it a better life.

I considered educating Fishman on the merits of capitalism, but didn’t want to end up on TokTak or whatever it’s called.

So I shrugged and said, “Fine, I’ll go elsewhere. Someone will sell me a fish.” 

The girl at the other pet store asked me nothing about my setup. She just bagged up a fish then frowned as she handed me the bag.

Are fish peddlers required by law to frown?

I was still agitated when I got home. I thought about calling his manager, so I did some research. Turns out, if some employee doesn’t like the look of you or the sound of your setup, it’s no fish for you!

Thirty years ago, nobody cared if you had a 500-gallon tank or angelfish cork board. Now, it was like Fishman wanted a twelve-page application and a home visit before allowing me to purchase a $3 fish. 

When did fish become so valuable?

No one seems to care about, say, worms. Or plants. Nobody’s inspecting their ecosystems prior to purchase.

I suppose I could see the logic if fish had a lobby. If somewhere, in a smoky board room, a bunch of fish were sitting around a long table demanding better conditions. 

“We deserve rights,” one would say. “A fifty gallon tank minimum!” Then a betta would slam its fin against the glass he’s trapped behind to add, “And no more neon gravel!!”

But there’s no fish union. Just Fishman. With his skittering eyes and the unfair authority of a man who’s spent far too much time watching innocent little lives end up in somebody’s toilet. 

Suddenly, I felt old. They weren’t just selling fish anymore, they were granting custody. People like me required vetting and subtle cues to go home and think about what we’d done.

Later that night, I watched my new fish explore his home by staying very still and waiting for something to change. 

When I turned off the tank light, I whispered, “You better live.”

And maybe, in the dark, the fish whispered back, “You better get a bigger tank.”