Payment for Services Rendered
Buck Withers had always known exactly how his life would pan out. Captain of the polo team in high school until he got scouted, then go pro and play on a national team for a solid couple of years. Maybe swap teams a few times, depending on how many zeroes they could fit on his contract. Hire some nerd like Poindexter to manage his money until it grew faster than he could possibly spend it, then retire by thirty-five and spend the rest of his days lounging by the pool and taking home bikini babes and doing whatever else he felt like.
He frowned as he read the pH test strip, then measured out another half-cup of chlorine pellets to throw in the water.
Things had not gone… exactly to plan.
But professional polo had always been a means to an end; there were other ways to get rich if he was willing to try them. And he was always willing to try.
He was already spending his days by the pool… even if it was the Rich family’s pool and his time was spent skimming, chlorinating, and powerwashing instead of lounging.
Not that there was no lounging. Some days there were hours-long stretches where it was just him alone in the estate, so who was going to stop him? Sometimes he’d even help himself to the wet bar.
The job certainly had its perks, even if he’d had to learn a rigid schedule to make the most of it.
Every day he rose at seven thirty, had a protein shake, and hit the gym. Staying in perfect shape was the most important part of his job; it was even in his contract.
By nine, he arrived at the estate, changed into the shorts of his uniform (there was supposed to be a shirt to go with it, but the maids kept misplacing it), and got to work.
That was the most boring part of the day: actually working on the pool. Scrubbing, testing, measuring, restocking. Easy, but tedious.
At ten things got interesting. That was when Mrs. Rich came out for her morning swim.
That’s what she called it, anyway. He’d rarely seen her actually get in the water (though she did own a large collection of swimsuits). Most days she just sipped a mimosa on a lounge chair and watched him work. Despite her big sunglasses, he could always tell when he had her attention.
The schedule varied after that, depending on her mood. Some days he just kept working and she eventually left. But at least three times a week she’d have some special task requiring his expertise in the storage shed. Or behind the bar. Or—once, when Mr. Rich had been in Manehattan—in her master bathroom.
One thing he could say about his employer: she was very direct and to the point. No wasting time on ceremony or atmosphere. She always wrapped up her special tasks in twenty minutes or less.
“Your performance was… tolerable,” she’d say (or even “adequate” if he really put his hips into it) and she’d slip him an envelope with a check inside. “Your usual bonus. Keep up the good work.”
After that, it was back to cleaning like nothing happened.
By lunch, Mrs. Rich would leave for her PTA meetings, her school board council meetings, her HOA meetings, or one of the dozen other groups she ruled over with an iron hoof.
That was usually when he’d get his break. A few hours to lounge, help himself to the pantry or liquor cabinet, or partake in their home theater.
But not everyday was quite so relaxed.
On Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, like clockwork Filthy would return home minutes after his wife left. And he’d always come ready to ask for a 'favor' of his ‘favorite employee’.
Sometimes it was spotting him in the gym. Sometimes it was washing his cart. Sometimes it was just having him reach into the depths of the washing machine to grab a stuck tie. Sometimes there were costumes or scripts involved. But no matter the game of the day, the favors always ended the same way.
“Very good, my lucky penny,” Filthy would chuckle and smile. Then he’d pull back the waistband of his uniform’s tight shorts, slip a bag of bits inside, and let it snap back against his stomach. “A little present, and a reminder that this remains our little secret.”
That’d usually last till two, or three, or sometimes just before Mrs. Rich got home.
After that, a bit more pool maintenance till five, then he headed home.
It wasn’t the most demanding schedule, but it was still vitally important to remember who would be in the house, when they’d be there, on which days, and for how long. Close calls meant them sometimes forgetting his compensation in their panic, which made balancing his household’s budget for the week very frustrating.
The worst days by far were the ones where their kid, Diamond Tiara, hung around the house. On those days he had to genuinely, actually work hard on the pool all day long. Both his bosses were even more determined to keep his extra duties a secret from their daughter than they were from each other.
Sometimes it felt a little pointless to maintain a pool that only got used maybe once a month by the Rich’s kid and her friends, but the job’s other perks more than made up for it.
It definitely wasn’t the life Buck had envisioned back in highschool, but it had most of the highlights. A mansion without the mortgage. Regular hookups with no strings or expectations attached. Even weekends off to play pickup polo in Canterlot.
Sure he wasn’t going to be retiring by thirty-five, but making basically three paychecks at once (two of them untaxed) meant that Poindexter got to stay home and focus on their investments, his hobbies, and their son. And at the end of the day, that was what really mattered.
