The Night the Entitled Guest Got a Toxic Surprise
It was supposed to be a normal night at the hotel. But when a rude guest decided the rules didn’t apply to her, things spiraled into chaos—and karma hit her hard.
I was already two hours past my shift, stuck waiting for maintenance to finish fixing the pool’s water filtration system. Normally, I’d be home by 10:15 p.m., but my manager, Ray, asked me to stay in case the repair guy needed access to the chemical logs.
By 9:55 p.m., I’d already warned the pool guests three times that closing time was coming. First, a friendly walk-by at 9:00, then a clear announcement at 9:40, and a final “five minutes left!” at 9:55. Most people packed up without a fuss—one dad even thanked me.
I’d learned my lesson from past complaints. If I didn’t give guests plenty of warning, they’d act shocked when I kicked them out at closing time. Some begged for extra minutes, some kids cried, and drunk guests sometimes argued. But tonight? Tonight was different.
Enter Linda.
Linda was a guest in her early 40s, with sunburned skin and a face flushed from one too many glasses of chardonnay. Her chlorine-soaked hair clung to her head as she stomped toward me, barefoot, with two dripping kids on her hips.
Her voice was like nails on a chalkboard.
“We paid GOOD MONEY to be here! My kids want to keep swimming! You have to keep the pool open another hour!”
I checked my watch. “Sorry, ma’am. Pool closes at 10 p.m. sharp. It’s policy—plus, we’ve got chemical treatments scheduled. It’s not safe to stay.”
She rolled her eyes like I’d just insulted her. “Show me something OFFICIAL. I was only gone five minutes!”
Yeah, right. She’d been gone way longer. But I wasn’t about to argue. Instead, I walked to the sign behind the gate and tapped it.
“Pool Hours: 8 a.m. to DUSK,” I read aloud.
“That doesn’t say 10 p.m.!” she shrieked.
“Dusk is usually between 6 and 9 p.m., depending on the season,” I said, smiling sweetly. “Honestly, you’re getting extra time.”
Her face turned red. She stormed off, yelling at her kids to follow.
I thought that was the end of it. I figured she’d go back to her room, complain to her friends, and forget about it.
I was wrong.
Ten minutes later, my radio buzzed. It was Kyle, the new night clerk—a nervous kid who wanted to please everyone.
“Uh, hey, Liam? I, um… gave Linda the gate key.”
“You WHAT?!”
“She said her kids were crying! She promised they’d only stay 30 minutes!”
I groaned. “Kyle, the spare key is with Ray, and I have the other one. How did you even—? You know what? Not my problem.”
I should have walked away. But I didn’t.
Instead, I watched as Linda and a whole parade of kids—at least a dozen of them—marched back to the pool. They jumped in like it was a water park, splashing and laughing.
But the fun didn’t last long.
“EWWW! IT SMELLS!”
“MY SKIN BURNS!”
Linda shot up from her lounge chair, screaming, “KAYLA, GET OUT! GET OUT NOW!”
Too late.
Every single kid was now swimming in what we called a chlorine shock treatment—the same treatment I’d told Linda was happening tonight.
After closing, we dump in a high-concentration chemical mix. It takes hours to balance out. That’s why we lock the gate and post warnings.
Those kids were about to smell like bleach for days.
Linda went full meltdown mode. She dragged her crying kids to Kyle, screaming, “WHO PUT CHEMICALS IN THE POOL?!”
She yelled so much that Kyle—bless his heart—gave her my number.
Within an hour, my phone rang.
“You did this ON PURPOSE!” Linda screeched. “Where are you? Get back here NOW!”
I sighed. “Ma’am, the pool closes at 10. Chemical treatment starts immediately after. I told you this.”
She turned purple. “I WANT THE MANAGER!”
“He’ll be here at 8 a.m.”
She stormed off, shrieking at Kyle. Then, my phone buzzed with a voicemail.
“You petty little creep,” her voice hissed. “You never said the chemicals were THIS bad! I’m calling the police! I hope you like JAIL!”
I didn’t respond. Just saved the voicemail and sent it to Ray.
An hour later, two police cars rolled up.
Linda was on the curb, arms flailing, kids wrapped in towels like sad little ducklings. Kyle looked like he might faint.
When the cops asked for my statement, I showed them:
- The voicemail.
- The schedule log.
- The security footage.
Turns out, Kyle had given her the wrong key—but in her drunk rage, she picked the lock to get in. Then, when the gate auto-locked behind one of the kids, she ripped open the emergency override.
Big mistake.
The camera also caught her screaming into her phone:
“I’ll RUIN you! I’ll tell them you POISONED my kids!”
One officer turned to her slowly. “Ma’am, did you tamper with the lock?”
She froze. “I—I was given a key!”
“But you forced it open. That’s trespassing.”
Her face went white.
Kyle, looking at his shoes, mumbled, “She said her husband was sick… I didn’t know the chemicals were in yet.”
I almost felt bad for him.
In the end:
- Linda got charged with trespassing and filing a false police report.
- Banned from the hotel chain.
- Her kids? Totally fine—just itchy from swimming in a bleach bath.
As I walked back to clock out, Kyle followed me, looking like a lost puppy.
“Hey… I’m sorry,” he whispered.
I shrugged. “You’ll learn. Just don’t hand out keys without backup.”
He nodded. “Thanks for not throwing me under the bus.”
I smirked. “Linda did that herself.”
We both laughed.
Moral of the story?
When someone ignores the rules, sometimes karma delivers the lesson—with a splash.
