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.
Butterball
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.
