Bimql chhetry.

Posts

My Sister Keeps Leaving Me Voicemails, But I Don’t Have a Sister.

My name is Ethan Reyes. I’m 29, and I’ve been living alone for almost four years. Last month, I started receiving voicemails from an unknown number. The first one was only six seconds long. A little girl laughing. I deleted it. The next day, another voicemail arrived. This time, a girl’s voice said: “Ethan, are you still mad at me?” I thought it was a prank. But the messages kept coming. Every few days, the same girl would leave a voicemail. Sometimes she’d talk about school, sometimes she’d complain about our parents, and sometimes she’d simply ask when I was coming home. The strange thing was that she always called me her brother. I eventually searched the number online, but found nothing. One evening, I played the messages for my mother. She immediately turned pale. “Where did you get these?” I explained. She grabbed my phone, deleted every voicemail, and told me never to answer that number again. I asked her who the girl was. She said, “Nobody. Just someone trying to scare you.” ...

At a high-end fundraiser, then this happened...

In the mid-2000s I was an executive and my boss personally paid for a table of ten for a fundraiser for breast cancer. It was really high-end. five tsar hotel in the CBD, very high-quality wine and food, beautifully presented, with lots of entertainment and some auctions to raise extra money. Everyone was in suits and having a good time. Over dessert some speeches came along and then to our surprise the head chef came out in his stained apron and his toque and started speaking in an Italian accent. "Ladies and gentlemen, today is very important for me. I lost my mother to breast cancer and I just wanted to acknowledge how important a cause your money is supporting. I would like to repay you in a small way by singing you a short Italian song." He then launched into a full-blown aria - I don't recall what it was but it was clear he wasn't just a chef. He had a glorious tenor voice and we got absolutely blown away by the performance. I was actually quite drunk and had...

My Nancy Reagan Story

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...

I got hired at a cinema, witnessed a full-blown disaster, and got fired on the same day. (Literally.)

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...

My father and wife are sleeping with each other

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...

They were immaculate.

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...