I was a pool cleaner for over fifteen years and darn good at my job. That was before the “incident”.
I got the call about 7 am, if I remember right. It was the Johnson residence up at Cedar Terrace. They had a nice little gunite pool, diving board, three feet on the shallow end, ten on the deep, the whole bit. Good people, too, the Johnsons. Or so I thought, anyway.
I guess I should’ve known something was up weeks prior when the feathers showed up in the filter. The man of the house told me someone had a pillow fight there next to the side. I told him, “Look, sir, I don’t mean to tell you how to run your family, but the pool is not a place for horseplay.” He just smiled and assured me it wouldn’t happen again. If only I’d known what they were really up to…
So I got to the place about 8, maybe 8:30. They’d told me they needed an emergency cleaning ASAP, so I brought my best tools, you know, and prepared for the worst. Oh, it was the worst, alright. But there was nothing I could’ve done to prepare myself for it. The blood and the beaks… That kind of thing changes a pool cleaner, makes him want to throw down his net and walk away from the business. And that’s just what I did.
Yeah, they paid me a lot of money to keep it hush-hush. I’m not proud of the part I played in their horrible little “game”, either. Heck, when I think about all the nights I wake in a sweat nightmaring about drowning poultry, that money seems like nothing but chicken feed.
Wear this shirt: when the one with Marco Polo on it is dirty.
Don’t wear this shirt: in the pool. Also, no animals, no jean shorts, no unnecessary noise, no running, and no diving off the side.
This shirt tells the world: “Swim out with your **** out.”
We call this color: Welcome To Our Baby Blue Ool. Notice There’s No “P” In It.
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