Bimql chhetry.

Every Sunday night in the early 1990's, a group of Hollywood types in their 70 and 80s gathered for dinner at a venerable Italian restaurant in Westwood. There was a former network television executive, an Academy Award Winning movie producer, a longtime PR man for R&B singers, maybe a wife or a girlfriend, and me, a struggling writer in his 20s. The host was a manager/producer/impressario, in his 80s, in a wheelchair. His claim to fame was having produced what many critics argue is one of the worst movies ever made. His son, an entertainment lawyer, my entertainment lawyer, introduced us. The old man took an immediate liking to me, and invited me to these dinners. The #1 table on a Sunday at this restaurant was a big deal. To get it, we agreed to be in at 6, and out at 7:45. The typical dinner conversation was as expected from men of this age: prostates and prostitutes, deals that fell through, and ones they hoped to close but never actually will. The restaurant was still qui...

So today was supposed to be my first shift at a movie theatre. I was pretty excited. New job, free popcorn (hopefully), meeting coworkers, the usual. I was assigned to concessions. Everything was going normally until a customer walked up and asked me for a McFlurry with their popcorn. I politely explained that we don't sell McFlurries. They responded: "I SEE THE MCFLURRY MACHINE BEHIND YOU." They then started trying to climb over the counter to get behind me. I thought they were joking at first. They were not. Things escalated VERY quickly, and security got involved. The customer was apparently using their own kid as some kind of weapon, which is a sentence I never expected to write. I decided the best course of action was to get away from the situation. I hid behind the popcorn machine for a moment before making my way to the supervisor's office. My supervisor told me to stay there while he handled the situation. I locked the door, closed the blinds and waited. Then...

I (30M) found out my father (56M) has been sleeping with my wife (28F). A while ago, I started noticing changes in how my wife and my father acted around each other. If my wife and I were in a room and he walked in, her mood or facial expression would change. I also caught him looking at her more often, seemingly for no reason. For context, my wife and I live with our son just down the street from my parents, so we spend a lot of time at each other’s houses. Over time, I noticed more. He would take every opportunity to stand close to her, and he seemed to follow her from one room to another. If she went into the kitchen, for example, he would suddenly “need something from the kitchen.” I brought up my concerns with my wife, but she brushed them off and told me I was crazy. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was going on. Eventually, I set up microphones and cameras in several rooms around the house to see what I could find out. Over the past year, yes almost year, tho...

I went into my sixty-eight-year-old aunt’s garage to borrow some folding chairs. Beside my uncle’s model railway were six tubes of this fancy cream. “Modelling supplies,” Uncle Colin said. I picked one up. “Shea butter?” “For the hands. After the modelling.” A surprisingly expensive solution from a man who washes paintbrushes in old baked-bean tins. Then I noticed his nails. They were immaculate. Not clean. Colin has always been clean. These had shape. Shine. A finish usually reserved for cars he isn’t allowed to touch at exhibitions. “June’s been practising,” he said. “Practising what?” He looked towards the garden. I found Aunt June outside the summerhouse, moving a hanging basket directly in front of the window. “What’s in there?” “Garden things.” “Can I get the chairs?” “I’ll bring them round.” This was unusual enthusiasm for lifting furniture from someone who normally considers pointing a sufficient contribution. I opened the door. Inside were two armchairs, a stack of little tow...

I went into my twenty-two-year-old son’s room to collect the mugs. On his desk were these little silver cartridges, lined up beside his laptop. “For my BB gun,” he said. I took one downstairs and asked his dad. “Yep. Gas cartridges.” He barely looked away from the television. That was reassuring for about three seconds, until I realized I had received two identical answers from people who regularly ask me where we keep the towels. I found the packaging. “Then why does the box say whipped cream?” My husband paused the television. Apparently we had reached the part of the investigation where looking at the evidence was necessary. Upstairs, my son had suddenly become very interested in putting his laundry away. Specifically, putting it in front of his wardrobe. I asked him to open it. Inside was a whipped-cream dispenser, a milk frother, three bottles of syrup and a stack of plastic cups. Last month, I said we weren’t buying any more coffee equipment. We have a perfectly good coffee mach...

I was looking for a phone charger. That is the last point in this story at which I was behaving normally. In my wife’s bedside drawer, I found something green. With a button. Whatever you just pictured: yes. My brain went there too. Except mine immediately hired a lawyer. A small, sensible part of me suggested asking my wife what it was. Unfortunately, that part of me apparently has no voting rights. I picked it up. It had some weight to it. Suspicious. It was underneath a book. Concealed. Also suspicious. Please understand that once you’ve decided you’re a detective, even somebody reading becomes evidence. I pressed the button. It yodeled. I cannot adequately explain how unprepared my theory was for Alpine folk music. Then I heard claws on the hallway floor. Our Labrador came around the corner, parked himself directly in front of me, and performed the most professional sit of his career. He knew the sound. He knew the procedure. Somehow, I interpreted this as further evidence that I ...