OUR PROBLEM WITH PESTS BEGAN one morning in late spring, a little over a year ago, with a swarm of insects forming a dark cloud just beyond the back deck of our house. We thought they were wasps. We have a kid in elementary school and two dogs, and none of us in The Pack would enjoy the sting of a wasp.
Running parallel to this domestic issue is another one that inflicts the entire neighborhood: People ringing the doorbell selling shit. Once the snow melts, the neighborhood is swarmed with them. Always guys with a nametag on their company's white golf shirt standing on the porch smiling. Sometimes there's a Segway behind them so they can cover more houses in a day. Hello, Sir. How are you today?
Ugh.
It's all kinds of shit: Painting your house; doing yardwork; a security system; and my favorite—new replacement windows? Motherfucker, this house was built less than ten years ago. I already have new windows.
And of course, there's pest control.
I work largely from home, so these interruptions are not cutting into my free time. I'm working. Go Away. I try to be nice, but I've reduced my appearance in our one-act plays at the front door to less than 30 seconds. I used to grab a business card promising to put them at the top of the list if we ever did need those important services, and I'd throw it in a drawer. A couple months later when we're cleaning house, I'd toss it in the trash. Perhaps you’re familiar with this technique too.
Now they just carry their iPad. I've reduced my lines to two, basically saying no thanks in a couple of sentences before closing the door. It helps when I'm flanked by two vehemently barking dogs, god love 'em.
A Perfect Swarm
It was a stressful time for us when the wasp cloud appeared. We were preparing for a trip and dealing with some family stuff.
It was a perfect swarm for the pest company.
I was out mowing the lawn later that day pondering how to eliminate a cloud of wasps when the two pest control salesmen I had sent away two weeks earlier were back casing the neighborhood again, and they rang the doorbell. My wife answered and was, of course, concerned about the stinging of a thousand wasps. She told them of the wasp cloud. I shut off the mower and led them to the trouble area. The wasps were taking a break, but they were sure to return.
My wife had chosen one of the pest company's plans and gave them our credit card number. With earplugs still in place, I signed and initialed the remaining areas of pest control contract so they could come out and kill the wasps. Then I finished mowing the lawn.
We're Hooked
Once I had showered off the dust of the day, sat down and opened a beer, I thought back to the pest salesmen. I regretted signing all that crap. Why again did we need six fucking treatments?
I began pondering the premise of the whole affair. I could understand pest control if I had ants or spiders inside our house, but you're saying you will control pests outside. Where pests live. Like, all 400 quintzillion bugs on Earth. If we limit the scope to a quarter-mile radius around our house, you might kill a few bugs in the bushes by the porch, but tomorrow after it rains, a blitztillion new bugs that were hanging out farther away from the porch will crawl into the area and we're right back where we started.
Hmmm. Maybe that's the point.
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Everyone you ask from the pest company is sure to tell you about how safe and natural their pesticides are, but their application guys are all wearing pretty decent masks and gloves as they circle our house, coating it with chemicals.
The next day, one of them came out to perform our first service but stopped when he arrived at the edge of the deck. We did not have a wasp problem after all. The wasps were actually bees. They've made a hive below one of the corners of our deck. No one wants to kill bees. That's actually illegal around here, but we recognize the benefits of bees and a hive, and the legality of it is beside the point.
The point is: We do not need the pest service after all.
But guess what? There's a cancellation fee of $199 if you want to end the service. He avoided the bees and sprayed the rest of the exterior of the house and left.
Contractually, every time they come to our house and spray chemicals, they charge us another $169—or whatever the hell the amount was. I was trying to ignore the whole thing but they also had my cellphone number. Now I'm alerted every time an appointment approaches.
Your pest control service is scheduled for Tue Aug 27, 2024. To make changes to this appointment please reply "1" or visit //my.[pest company].com It made me feel similar to the guy in the film version of Glengarry Glen Ross trying to repel one of the salesmen from his home who said, "My wife filled out a card in a magazine and we have been plagued ever since," as he leads the salesman back to his front door. But I wasn't able to simply escort Jack Lemmon back out into the rain. We were ensnared in a largely electronic web with a pest company, and it was all running on automatic pilot now: scheduling pesticide appointments and drawing every month's fee from our credit card. (For our convenience!)
When I mentioned the bees to the pest guy on the second visit, he said he was unaware of our bees. Evidently, internal communication isn't one the pest company's strong points. I actually laid out an array of orange cones around the beehive so future pest employees wouldn't kill them. Then I thought, why am I doing this?
After the second trip to our house, I was done with it.
Time to End This
When you add the word "scam" to the name of the pest company in a search engine, you get quite a bit in return. Most people are complaining about the pushy salespeople and the contract with a cancellation fee higher than any of the individual service visits. You know you're dealing with a high-quality company when they make you pay to quit them.
(There's also a country named Germany that used a similar tactic with 96 miles of brick wall topped with razor wire to prevent citizens of East Germany from seeking their fortunes elsewhere, and if anyone tried to leave, they would be shot from the panoply of guard towers that punctuated the wall. East Germany must've been a great place to live. There's also a cable company I have in mind, but let's just keep our focus on the pest company.)
Strategizing with the Commodity of Time
As you age, the arc of a lifetime that forms behind you gets longer and with that, if you pay attention, comes wisdom. And patience. A plan will come to me but for now, I need to stop the bleeding.
In August, I decided to reply to the monthly appointment text with a "1" and when the reply came back on what I wanted to change, I typed "reschedule appointment" back to the bot that was auto-replying back to me. It suggested another appointment a few days later, but I insisted on pushing it ahead to the following month.
After fencing with the AI bot, I successfully rescheduled the appointment ahead to September. When the September text came in, I did the same thing. Just me and the bot continuously pushing the third appointment forward, something I planned to do in perpetuity if that's what it took.
October begins a busy time for me in the sports entertainment industry. I was distracted in November and didn’t reschedule the treatment in time, so they gave us a third session of pesticides just before Thanksgiving.
We traveled for the holidays but when we returned home, I began sharpening my sword.
Removing the Teeth
My first order of business with the pest company was our credit card. They had it on file and could automatically deduct the cancellation fee if we broke up with them. We need to take care of that.
Nobody answers the phone anymore. It's all about the app and the QR code and creating yet another fucking account somewhere. So, fine. I logged into our online account with the pest company and went to work.
I found the area under our account where the credit card was listed. There was a [Remove] button next to it, but it was disabled so I could not click it.
Okay. Bishop takes Pawn.
I couldn't remove our credit card... but I could add another one.
AMEX1234 [Remove]
add card [+]As a reward for perfect attendance working the scoreboard for the Denver Broncos in 2024, I earned a $250 gift card in the familiar form of a credit card. I had yet to activate it or use it.
I click [+] and enter the gift card into our pest company account. We have two credit cards in the system, and now the [Remove] buttons next to both are enabled.
AMEX1234 [Remove]
GIFT1234 [Remove]
add card [+]
[Remove]
GIFT1234 [Remove]
add card [+]The pest company now has my $250 gift card as the only credit card on file. The [Remove] button is disabled again because at least one credit card must exist in the system. That's fine with me because I move on to Step Two.
I use my gift card to buy a couple of USB thumb drives. And then I go out barhopping with some friends. I buy the first round, the last round, and most of the rounds in between.
The next day, that gift card had about 75 cents left on it.
Knight takes Bishop.
Reading is Good For You!
The contract was full of bullshit I didn't really care to read. Didn't need to. I went straight to the point: How do we end this shit without paying a penalty?
I scanned for language about the length of the contract and how it can end. The contract officially called it the INITIAL SERVICE AGREEMENT. For a year, we are scheduled to pay for and receive six of these chemical treatments. It was November and we had only allowed three applications to date.
The contract said if we cancelled before the end of the INITIAL SERVICE AGREEMENT, we would be obligated to pay the $199 cancellation fee.
But here's the important part of the contract:
The TERM of the INITIAL SERVICE AGREEMENT ends with the EARLIER of:
1) 12 months, or
2) 6 standard treatments.It's been a while since I've exploited the full weight of the word "OR." It's a logical operator used to evaluate conditions in computer code. As a programmer, I know OR very well, and I based the final stage of our detachment from the pest company on it. Forget how many treatments we have left. Once 12 months elapse, we're fucking done.
I continue pushing the fourth appointment forward, interacting with the cellphone text bot month after month—basically remote-programming the scheduling system—until June of 2025, 12 months after signing the agreement. Then I push this same appointment from last December into July for good measure.
Now That My Sword is Razor Sharp
Time for the beheading.
But in 2025, we don't fight with swords and guillotines. We use computers and a telephone.
Our next appointment was scheduled for last Wednesday. Instead of texting with the bot about rescheduling again, I called the pest company on Tuesday and poked the numbers on my cellphone to navigate the automated system until a live person came on.
I said I wished to cancel our service: Not just tomorrow's application, but the entire service.
She said she would transfer me to a manager, and she put me on hold.
A nice gentleman with an Indian accent came on the line to represent this local company, and I restated my request.
He informed me that according to the contract, we needed to utilize a minimum of six treatments, and we had only used three. He peppered it with "I'm sorry, buts", stating that "…with tomorrow's treatment, there is still two more appointments after that."
Rook takes Knight.
I said, "I want to cancel tomorrow's appointment, and I want to cancel the entire service. Do we need to do that in one step or two?"
Bishop takes Rook.
That's when he moved his Knight into the path of my Queen. He repeated the part of the contract about the six treatments that comprise the INITIAL SERVICE AGREEMENT. And then he went on to list each one to prove that there were only three. I entertained myself by letting him rattle them off for me. "And then on Friday, July 26th, 2024, we did a treatment..."
"Yeah, uh huh," I offer as he reads the details of the last treatment in November.
When he was finished, I said, pronouncing each word clearly:
"The contract says the Initial Service Agreement ends after six treatments"
(pause for two seconds)
"OR"
(pause for two seconds)
"Twelve months."
(pause for two seconds)
"It's now been more than twelve months so I wish to cancel the contract and not pay a fee. The number of treatments completed or remaining is irrelevant."
"Okay. Please hold on."
When he returns, he says our contract has been terminated and parts with, "let us know if we can help you with anything in the future."
Checkmate.
"Okay. Thanks."
[Click]
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When I tried to log into our pest company account on Thursday, a new response came back:
We can't find an account with that email.Perfect.
I bought a can of wasp spray from the hardware store for $8.99 a couple months ago and it works great on the couple of wasps we've seen since 2024.
THE END_