They are the people that do all the work; we wouldn’t last a day without them. I know
that. And as a group, they are the best people on
Earth, but still — sometimes, employees do the
dumbest stuff. They just do.
We don’t usually air the absolutely whackadoo stuff. We
keep that to ourselves. Is it because we’re protecting them? Yes,
but let’s be real — it’s probably because we’re embarrassed to
admit we hired them in the first place.
Well, the heck with it. I’m on deadline with this thing, and
I’m a little desperate. So I’m breaking the trend. And I need to
get this off my chest.
LET’S CALL HIM BUTTERBALL
We work year-round, but this was
fall.
When I started working, I
remember employers used to
give out turkey gift cards for
Thanksgiving, like a week or two
before the holiday. It made me
feel valued. I wanted to share that
experience, but I didn’t have an
extremely large team, so I bought
actual turkeys for my crew.
My wife caught me at the store and
said, “I know you. Get those store-brand
turkeys out of your cart and buy
Butterballs.”
She was right. I swapped them out
and took them home. I handed them out
the Friday before Thanksgiving so they
had time to thaw.
Everyone was thankful.
On Monday, one of my best techs
was a no-call/no-show.
I call, straight to voicemail. I text.
Nothing.
Hours later, I got a response:
“You motherf$#@! You only gave me
a turkey because you know you don’t pay
me well enough to feed my family.”
Then, radio silence.
I’m floored. This is way out of
character. I try calling, straight to
voicemail. I text again. More expletives.
That night, I logged onto Facebook
(I don’t keep it on my phone — it’s a
ruthless time-suck) and saw an alert that
he posted on my page.
His post?
Just a hashtag.
#YouButterballedMeBro.
LET’S CALL HIM SPIKE
This was at what we affectionately called
the Tilapia Pool.
It was a repo, an REO property —
vacant for seven years. Two years prior,
neighbors started complaining about a
mosquito problem. The city’s solution?
Dump a buttload of tilapia fry into the
pool.
When we finally got called in for a
green-2-clean, those fish had grown to 6
to 8 inches. Ever tried catching a turtle in
a pool? Yeah, ha. Imagine tilapia.
We’re skimming out 7 years’ worth of
pine needles, gak, and general schmutz
when my tech steps off the deck. Usually,
it’s not a problem.
Except.
The backyard had a bamboo garden
when the real estate agency took over
the house. The landscapers “removed”
it before we got there — by cutting the
stalks flush to the ground at a 45-degree
angle and covering them with dirt. Sort
of like a Burmese Tiger Trap. Into which,
Spike falls.
He steps onto the lawn, right onto a
bamboo spear.
Through his sneaker.
Through his foot.
It’s okay; I’m a pool pro, I have
channel locks. I grab the duct tape.
“Just wrap it up,” he says, bleeding all
over the place. “I wanna finish this pool.”
Dedication? Madness? Hard to tell.
I sent him to a Doc-in-a-box.
Pain meds, Tetanus shots, and a
week-long vacay.
LET’S CALL HER BINDI
It’s August. Afternoon. Hotter than the devil’s armpit.
The phone rings. One of my techs.
“Hey, Rudy, I just wanted to let you
know I wasn’t able to clean all of Mr. and
Mrs. House-on-the-Swamp’s pool today.”
“Okay,” I say. “What’s going on? Let
me know so I can tell the homeowner.”
“Oh, she knows,” Bindi replies. “She’s
standing right next to me.”
“Oh, good. At least they can see why.
Just curious, why couldn’t you clean the
whole pool today?”
“There’s a 6-foot-long gator in the
deep end.”
“Oh, you mean you couldn’t do
anything at that pool today, right?” I
clarify.
“No,” she says. “I have a date tonight,
and I was afraid you’d make me come
back when the gator left, and I just don’t
have time for that today. I need to get
ready. So, instead of skipping the pool, I
tested the water in the shallow end and
then vacuumed around it.”
Let me say that again.
She vacuumed AROUND the
alligator!
Double-Time Danny
LET’S CALL HIM DOUBLETIME
DANNY
Memorial Day is war if you run a retail
store in the Northeast.
Floodgates open. Lines out the door.
It’s all hands on deck.
Thursday night, my assistant
manager called me. Slurring.
“I f$#%ing quit!” he slurs.
“Thashright, I f$#%ing quit!”
He rants about how employees
working holiday weekends is evil and
demonic.
Friday, he doesn’t show. Saturday?
Still MIA. Sunday? Ghosted.
Fine. If he didn’t quit, he’s fired.
Why did I hesitate? Why not so quick
to cut him loose?
Hard to say, but deep down I know
— life happens.
Maybe a mule kicked him in the
head. Maybe he was kidnapped by
Lilliputian terrorists.
Monday, Memorial Day, he walks in,
ready to work.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I’m here to work,” he says.
“I thought you quit?”
“I did.”
“Then why are you here?”
“It’s Memorial Day. I wanted the
double-time.”
Willy Wonka With Pool Chems
LET’S CALL HER WILLY
WONKA
Early in her training, I had a young tech
riding shotgun with me, learning the
ropes. She was doing well. We roll up to
a backyard with no screen enclosure. So
we’re talking Florida leafy, not Northern
leafy — big difference.
I have her test the water. She nails it.
TA’s a little low, so I send her to the truck
for 4 pounds of bicarb — about a D.E. scoop’s worth.
As she rounds the house, the
homeowner’s five-year-old daughter
wanders outside alone. Yes, alone. Lack
of parental supervision is another article
somebody else should write. I’m a pool
pro, dammit, not a swim instructor.
The little girl, curious, walks up to my
tech.
“What’s in the scoop?”
My tech smiles — “Pool chemicals!”
she announces cheerfully.
Then, she extends the scoop toward
the child.
“Do you want to touch it?”
Let me say that again.
She offered a five-year-old the
opportunity to reach into a scoop full of
pool chemicals.
NOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo!!!
I can still hear my reaction in slow
motion as I dove between them like I
was taking a bullet.
I know it was only baking soda, but
what do you think the five-year-old is
going to tell her parents when it comes
up? Also, do we really want to teach little
kids that it’s okay to touch pool chems?
LET’S CALL HIM
BOOMHAUER
I’m riding with a trainee I’d had for a
couple of weeks in the service truck. He
had the clipboard with the customer
route in his hand (wayyy before pool
service software was a thing). It was still
early morning. Dark out. One of those
mornings when the coffee hasn’t kicked
in, and the roads are still empty.
I told him to put an asterisk beside
a customer’s name. No idea why. No
idea who the customer was. But this
moment? Burned into my brain forever.
I’m driving along. It’s quiet. The kind
of quiet where you almost forget you’re
not alone. A good minute passes. He’s
still got the cab light on. Still holding
the pen. Still staring at the clipboard
like he’s trying to crack the Da Vinci
Code.
“What’s up?” I ask.
He looks at me. Dead serious.
“I don’t know how to spell asterisk.”
I know what you’re thinking, but
before you grade me too harshly for
my recruitment and hiring, just know
— over my 34 years (as of April 18,
2025) in the industry, I’ve hired and
trained hundreds of employees in
everything from retail pool supplies to
manufacturing to service to consulting.
If these are the only employee
malfunction stories I have, well, I’d say
it’s been a pretty good run.
How about you??
#YouButterballedMeBro.
This article first appeared in the April 2025 issue of AQUA Magazine — the top resource for retailers, builders and service pros in the pool and spa industry. Subscriptions to the print magazine are free to all industry professionals. Click here to subscribe.
