The humidity was thick enough to chew on, and by 10:00 p.m., I was more than ready to hang up the keys. Closing the community pool isn’t just about locking a gate; it’s about safety. I gave the usual fifteen-minute warning, then the five-minute “last splash” call. Most people trailed out, draped in towels and smelling like sunscreen and exhaustion. I locked the gate, checked the pH levels, and began the nightly ritual.
Then came Linda.
She stormed over, her hair already frizzed into a halo of static from the day’s chlorine, looking like she was ready to sue the sun for setting. She didn’t talk; she barked.
“WE PAID GOOD MONEY! KEEP THE POOL OPEN!”
I tried the “reasonable human” approach. I explained that the pool closes for a reason. We have a cleaning schedule. We have to shock the water with heavy chemicals to keep it from becoming a petri dish. There are noise ordinances for the neighbors whose balconies overlook the deck.
She wasn’t having it. She wanted “the manager,” she wanted “the board,” and most importantly, she wanted a reason to be angry.
“Show me something OFFICIAL!” she shrieked.
I didn’t even use my voice. I just pointed my flashlight at the large, weather-beaten sign bolted to the fence: POOL HOURS: 8 A.M. TO DUSK.
“It’s 10:00 p.m., Linda,” I said quietly. “Technically, I’ve already given you two hours of overtime.”
She didn’t thank me. Instead, she turned on her heel and sprinted—yes, sprinted—to the front desk of the clubhouse. I watched her through the glass doors, wildly gesturing at the night manager, a poor kid named Tyler who just wanted to finish his shift and go home.
Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed. It was Tyler. “Hey, man… I know the rules, but this lady is threatening to call the corporate office and the police. She’s saying we’re ‘kidnapping’ her summer. Just… can we let her back in? For an hour?”
I sighed. I knew what was in that water. I had just dumped the overnight shock treatment in—a concentrated dose of chemicals meant to scrub the pool clean while humans are safely tucked in bed.
“Tyler,” I said, “The signs are there for a reason. The chemicals are active. If she goes in now, she’s literally swimming in a science experiment.”
“She says she doesn’t care. She says she ‘knows her rights.’ Just open it so she stops screaming at me.”
I looked at the pool. I looked at the gate. My hands? Washed. I walked back, unlocked the gate without saying a word, and walked straight to my office. I didn’t stick around to watch. I didn’t offer a warning. I had already given her the “official” version, and she had rejected it.
I was home, finally sitting down with a cold drink, when my phone screamed at me an hour later. I didn’t recognize the number, but I had a feeling.
“Hello?”
“YOU!! THIS IS ON YOU! MY KIDS! LOOK AT MY KIDS!”
It was Linda. She wasn’t just barking now; she was vibrating with pure, unadulterated rage.
“Linda? What’s the problem? You got your extra hour.”
“THEIR HAIR! IT’S GREEN! AND THEIR SKIN—THEY’RE ITCHING LIKE THEY HAVE FLEAS! YOU DID THIS ON PURPOSE! YOU POISONED THE WATER!”
I took a slow sip of my drink.
“Linda,” I said, my voice as calm as a summer pond. “I told you about the chemicals. I told you about the cleaning. I showed you the ‘official’ sign that says the pool closes at dusk because that’s when the treatment begins. You insisted on being the exception to the rule.”
There was a stunned silence on the other end.
“It’ll wash off eventually,” I added. “But you might want to buy some heavy-duty moisturizer. And maybe some tomato juice for the hair. Have a great night.”
I hung up.
Rules aren’t always there to ruin your fun; sometimes, they’re there to keep your kids from turning into little green swamp monsters. Linda didn’t show up at the pool the next day. Or the day after.
Word around the clubhouse is she’s still trying to scrub the “official” consequences off her elbows.
