In my second year of college – What? Yes, we had electricity but no internet or cell phones. Mid-1980s. May I continue?

In my second year of college, there was a girl with Goldilocks wavy hair that I admired from afar. This was during my California surfer-girl infatuation phase. So, way before I met your mother.

On a full-moon-lit night, I was on the balcony of the 7th floor of my dorm lounge, reciting a classic but underrated poem written by – me. I had to present it the next day in a Poetry Writing class and thinking I was alone, I may have been a little too passionate because out of the window just above me, a girl’s head peeked out.

Not just any girl’s head. It was Her, the One – the object, subject and adjective of my dreams. And she was looking out her window, down at me on the balcony.

Does this scene remind you of anything? Any other tragic love story with a balcony scene? Not to worry. In this story no one dies. Actually, there is one death, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

So, from above, out her window, she said, “What ya doing?”

“Ahh… poem? Practicing.” Smooth. Practically Shakespearean, I know.

“Oh, cool,” she said.

Awkward silence. Say something, I told myself. I had about five seconds before she ducked her head back into her room.

You see, the purpose of poetry, according to a popular movie, was to woo women. Too bad for me that movie would not come out for another five years. At the time, I was studying poetry because, as a geek, I liked it. Unfortunately, you got your nerd genes from me, not your mother. I had no idea how to woo women. I had only the voices in my head, with some stellar pick-up lines from my inner dating coach, “Do you come here a lot?” – No, I couldn’t say that.

“Are you single?” – Definitely not. Three seconds, two. I needed to say something, “Goldfish” popped out of my mouth.

“Excuse me?” she said.

“Um, how is your goldfish?”

In the previous month’s issue of Dorm magazine, Dr. Ruth, the renowned 60-year-old sex-advice columnist, said that a great ice breaker with young women was to ask about their goldfish. Girls either have a goldfish or have always wanted one.

“Oh, I don’t have a goldfish. But I’ve always wanted one.”

“Um, I can get you one.”

“Really? Thanks.”

No, thank Dr. Ruth. And so there I am, talking to my first college crush and was about to ask her out on a date when – out popped another pretty head out her window, her brown-eyed, brown-haired roommate.

“Jules, who are you talking to?” Brownie said. “Oh, hello.”

And just like that, my moment was gone. I couldn’t ask Jules out right in front of her roommate. “Greetings,” I said. (Yeah, I know. Cut your old man some slack. I was improvising).

“He’s getting me a goldfish,” Jules said.

“Goldfish?” Brownie said; “Too much trouble. I prefer flowers. Roses.”

“Roses. I shall get you a dozen.”

Look, I was talking to girls, two of them. But before I could get too comfortable, a THIRD female head appeared out of their window next to them. It was starting to look like the tiny car at the circus but instead of clowns it was pretty coeds peeking out of a window. The third girl was Ginger, the redhead from across the hall. She did not like fish or flowers, but was partial to poetry. Well, I knew someone who dabbled in the poetic arts. And so, I promised her a poem.

But it was getting late. It was truly now or never and so I looked over the dating abyss and leaped. “Want to go out on a date on Friday?” I asked. They looked at each other confused. “With me,” I clarified.

They still looked confused. “Who are you asking?” the three asked.

Yes, indeed. Who was I asking? Ginger and Brownie were attractive but it was Jules my heart longed for. I’m unsure if I was being polite or if I was so afraid of rejection that I wanted to crash and burn shooting for the stars but I heard myself saying, “All THREE of you.”

“All of us?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” said Brownie.

“I’m in,” said Ginger.

With two Yeses out of three, I waited in suspense as Jules said, “Why not?” But before I could celebrate, Jules said, “Wait. I can’t on Friday.”

Then Ginger said, “Yeah, me, too. Sorry.”

“Saturday?” I asked

“Okay,” said Jules.

“Can’t Saturday,” said Ginger; “How about Sunday?”

“And you won’t forget?” they asked.

“Friday with Brownie with a poem,” I said; “Saturday with Jules and a goldfish and roses for Ginger on Sunday. Did I miss anything?”

And that is how your nerdy old Haha Papa went from zero dates to three with three different girls, You seem skeptical. Rightly so. Brownie and Ginger had to cancel at the last minute, but I still ended up dating Jules. And things, as they say, were great until they weren’t. Until I noticed that Goldie, the goldfish I got her was getting fat.

“You’re feeding her too much,” I said.

“No, I’m not.” Jules insisted.

She was right. I found out, through Brownie, that Goldie had died. That was Goldie 2.0. She didn’t have the heart to tell me. It was silly to think the death of a fish signaled the end of something but that was what it felt like at the time. And now as you begin your college journey, don’t be surprised if the length of a romantic relationship is equal to or less than the lifespan of a common goldfish.

 

J. Lee’s work has appeared in the South China Morning Post and at the HK Fringe Festival. His latest essay, “How (not) to get into an Ivy League School,” will be published in the May 2025 edition of Writer’s Digest Magazine.