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A collection of stories curated from different subreddits, adapted for NAR.

Sometimes, You Just Have To Suck It Up And “Work There”

, , , , , | Friendly | CREDIT: alxwak | November 24, 2020

Since becoming an adult, I get almost one “I Don’t Work Here” incident a month. This is my second ever incident and one of my most cherished memories.

This happens in the early 2000s. I’m a third-year nurse student in the capital. I’m sharing my apartment with a good friend and he is sharing his car. The car is of a brand cherished by taxi drivers and it’s yellow, the color of taxis in the capital. The major differences from a taxi are that it lacks the “TAXI” sign and that it is a hatchback; taxis are sedans. It is common for someone to flag us down, thinking we’re in a taxi until we came closer.

It is summer and my friend is island-hopping with his fiancé and they have left the car behind. I wake up to an almost empty fridge, and since I was paid yesterday, I decide to forgo the small convenience store in my neighborhood and drive to the big supermarket. I jump in the car and take a major road artery to the store.

I’m stopped in front of a bus stop, waiting for the light to turn green, when the back door opens and closes and I hear a woman’s voice.

Woman: “[Hospital], please!”

I turn around to say it’s not a taxi, but I stop in my tracks. A sweet old lady has entered the car. She is around sixty-five or seventy. She is clutching her purse so hard, her knuckles are turning white. She is clearly panicked. She keeps mumbling.

Woman: “Please hurry! She went into labor! Please hurry!”

I put the car into gear and starts driving towards the hospital. Nurse training kicks in and I start to talk to her to calm her down. She starts to calm down and I get the whole story. Her granddaughter, who’s nineteen, is pregnant and has had a rough pregnancy. An hour ago, she went into premature labor and the grandma is panicking.

We reach the hospital twenty minutes later. The guard at the entrance knows me, because of my hospital rotation. I drive up to the entrance and drop her. As she is trying to pay me, I tell her it’s on the house. At that point, she realizes this isn’t a taxi and gets a bit embarrassed. She tries to give me money again. I advise that if everything goes well, we should send me a cake. Little did I know…

Two weeks later, my roommate is back and receives a call from the police. They want to find out if he is the owner of the car and if he could go to the station.

Roommate: “Um… did anything happen with the car while I was gone?”

I say no, having almost forgotten the incident. I decide to tag along to the station. We are met by an officer who guides us to an office. Inside is the sweet old lady with a box. She jumps up.

Woman: “That’s him!”

And she hugs me. The officer is smiling. He is the father of the granddaughter, and now he’s a proud grandfather. Apparently, the lady told him about the incident and how helpful I was. He used his status as a police officer to get the plate from the CCTV and find the owner and thank me. The baby girl would have to spend some time in the hospital, due to being almost two months early, but otherwise, she was all right. So, I got the cake.

I actually met the girl by coincidence a couple of years ago. She has turned out fine and is studying to be a nurse.

This story is part of our Feel Good roundup for November 2020!

Read the next Feel Good roundup story!

Read the Feel Good roundup for November 2020!

Don’t Let Granny Get Your Goat… Or Your Books

, , , , | Related | CREDIT: Onionpersonnn | November 24, 2020

When I am about fifteen, my cousin is supposed to take me to the anime and manga convention in a bigger town. I am living in the countryside. I am really excited to go since I just adore watching anime and reading manga. And I am doing some cosplaying, so I am really hoping to bring one of my costumes to the party. The only small problem is money. Since it isn’t a super big convention, it is quite expensive to get the tickets, food, and have some fun there.

Fortunately, I have a bunch of schoolbooks from the past few years of learning and I know a place where you can sell these during the summer in order for somebody to buy them cheaper than in the shop. I can’t get their whole value back for selling these, but it will definitely be enough for convention and then some. I start stacking up all the books, and when my granny asks me what I am doing — she lives with me — I explain where I’m going, what the convention is, and how selling these books will help me cover my expenses. I am really happy to tell her all about the fun things that I will be able to do for three days there.

Then, she tells me a little story about herself.

Grandmother: “When I was ten, I really wanted to have a goat because my friend had a little one and I thought it was really cute. I asked my rich aunt to give me money. My aunt agreed without even asking questions, and she told me exactly where I could buy a small goat. But when I went home to tell my mom about that idea, she snatched the money from my hand and told me that it was not going to happen because we needed to buy food, clothes, etc., not a goat for fun.”

I think that she’s trying to tell me that she is sad that she couldn’t have such fun as a kid. I tell her that I’m feeling sorry for her and don’t think much more of it. I have no idea what is coming.

The next day, when I am supposed to go sell my books, they are gone; they all just disappeared. I immediately get scared that now I can’t go anywhere, but I decide not to panic and just ask everyone in the house what happened to my things. My dad has no idea, nor my brother. I finally confront my grandmother.

Me: “Granny, what happened to those schoolbooks I was going to sell?”

Grandmother: “I have no idea. Someone must have picked them up and hidden them somewhere.”

Me: “I asked literally everyone and no one knows what happened to them. Besides, I already can see on your face that you’re just trying to avoid my questions.”

Grandmother: “Why do you even need these old books?”

Me: “What do you mean? I told you yesterday exactly why I need them.”

Grandmother: “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She is acting like our talk never happened and my books never existed. I tell my dad about it. He tells me to forgive her because she’s old and may really not remember that — I know her personality really well and I KNOW that she is just lying to me — and to not worry because he will give me some money. That cheers me up a bit but I am still upset that the books I was about to sell are just gone. We aren’t any kind of rich, so Dad can give me money for tickets and some food, but there is no extra for buying souvenirs, doing lotteries, etc. I was really hoping for that since I was supposed to use only my own money.

After some time, I completely forgot about that accident until I went to my granny’s backyard while helping with something in spring. I looked to the old doghouse because I spotted something weird inside with the corner of my eye. Yup. All my books. All destroyed by the rains, winter, etc. Useless.

I love my grandmother but I still can’t forgive her that she stole my stuff, hoping that I would never go to the dreamed convention just because she couldn’t fulfill her own dream when she was small. I still went there, I still had fun with my cousin, but you know… I was still lied to.

More Entertaining Than “The Blob”

, , , , , , | Related | CREDIT: RavensArts | November 24, 2020

I’m a woman in my late thirties. I have a friend who has an uber-b**** of a younger sister, who in turn has a rotten little eight-year-old crotch goblin.

I mean, this kid is SUCH an a**hole and her s***head mom enables and indulges her. This kid always takes other people’s stuff and either messes with it, breaks it, eats it, or steals it. She throws a fit if you stop her, causing MOMMY to get in your face. Of course, her mom never offers to replace anything.

One night, a bunch of us ladies go to [Friend #1]’s house for a horror movie marathon night. We do movie nights two or three times a month, always with a different theme. Friends and spouses are welcome, and each of us is expected to bring a snack, drinks — alcohol is optional — and one or more movies, usually R-rated. We then pick the three or four movies we like best to watch. Suffice to say, young kids aren’t allowed.

We are well into our first movie — the 1988 remake of “The Blob,” which I brought — and two bottles of wine, when [Friend]’s front door opens and her sister walks in unannounced.

Sister: “I’m going clubbing! You need to watch [Kid]. You’re staying home anyway, so it shouldn’t be a big deal.”

My friend is pissed and refuses to watch the kid because of these reasons, which she fills us in on later. A, [Kid] is a spoiled, destructive brat; B, [Sister] didn’t call or ask, despite multiple warnings; C, this is [FRIEND #1]’s time to unwind with friends, not babysit her sister’s rotten crotch fruit; D, none of the movies are remotely child-friendly and she isn’t going to alter her plans just because her sister wants to go clubbing; and E, did I mention that the kid is a spoiled, destructive brat?

She doesn’t say any of this to her sister; she just gives a flat NO. Both [Sister] and [Kid] throw a tantrum; it turns out she told her daughter she would be having a “fun movie night with Auntie.”

As they argue, the kid takes the opportunity to grab the remote and start playing the DVD we paused when they let themselves in and starts watching. None of us stops her because, honestly, we are too busy watching the sisters fight to notice.

Ironically, we paused it just before a particularly scary and gross scene where a little boy gets grabbed and pulled under the water, and then comes up half-melted and screaming before being dragged back under and devoured.

Naturally, the brat freaks out and starts crying, which alerts [Sister].

Sister: *Screaming* “How dare you let my kid watch your disgusting f****** movie?! Who the f*** brought that?!”

Since I HATE [Sister], I get up off the couch… but surprisingly, so does [Friend #2], a very buff, sporty girl who [Sister] hates and ACTIVELY fears. This is because they got into a fistfight last year when [Sister] groped [Friend #2]’s fiancé at a party, completely sober, and then slapped [Friend #2], who promptly beat the crap out of [Sister] in front of everyone.

Friend #2: *Glaring* “It doesn’t matter whose movie it is. What matters is you coming in here uninvited, giving your sister s***, not watching your f****** kid, and then getting pissed off when your kid once again touches s*** that isn’t hers and ends up scaring herself. Now, I suggest you get your kid, turn around, and Go. F******. Home!’

A smart person would do what [Friend #2] said. But [Sister] has never been particularly smart. Instead of leaving, she turns to ME and starts getting in my face, probably figuring I’m not going to retaliate because she is smaller than me — she’s my height but much slimmer. She is right… but also wrong.

She keeps screaming a mishmash of oral flatulence I don’t really listen to, nor care about. At some point she insists that we NEED to care for her kid.

When she stops to take a breath, I cut in.

Me: “Why is it our job to watch your kid? It’s not like any of us pushed her out of our vag!”

[Sister] actually gasps, like someone in a graphic novel.

Sister: “YOU HAVE A SON!”

Me: *Starting to get really mad* “Yes, I do, but do you see him here? No! That’s because I’m not a self-centered b**** who’d bring him to an adults-only gathering or dump him on others without asking!

This really sets her off. And like any entitled moron who can’t fight, she tries to slap me. Luckily, she fights like a girl. Too bad for her, I don’t.

When [Sister] pulls her arm back — people, never telegraph your blows — I move slightly to the side, grab her arm, rotate it behind her back, grab her hair, and then plant her face into the nearest wall, pinning her arm behind her back. D***, it felt good!

[Sister] struggles and curses, but I’m not letting go.

Me: “You have three choices: you can take your kid and leave, quietly, I can kick your a** in front of your kid—”

I’d never do that, but she doesn’t know that, and by this point, one of the others has taken the kid into the kitchen, but I was too busy to notice.

Me: “—or I can call the cops, have you arrested for assault, and then call your ex to come pick the kid up.”

Her ex is the kid’s dad, and hates [Sister] because she cheated.

[Sister] agrees to the first option, but then, once I release her, she tries to get my friend to side with her because… FAMILY!

[Friend] responds by taking her sister’s keys, removing her house key, and telling her sister that neither she nor her kid are welcome in her house and to please get the f*** out.

The look on [Sister]’s face is one of utter shock, as if she just discovered someone pissing in her cereal bowl. [Sister] then looks to all of us for support — why she looks at me for help, I just don’t get — but we just glare at her.

Realizing nobody will side with her, [Sister] grabs her kid, calls us all c***s, especially me, and leaves, slamming the door.

[Friend] apologizes to us — no need; we all knew her sister was an a**hole — and then immediately calls her parents, giving them the low-down and warning them that unless they want to end up watching the brat all weekend, they’d better get in their car and go anywhere else, and to warn the other relatives, as well; [Sister] has tried this before, many times.

[Sister] didn’t get to go clubbing, and I heard that soon after, she lost custody of the brat to her ex. Apparently, the kid actually started to get better and stop acting up so much after that.

Time To Learn That Nothing Is Free

, , , , , | Friendly | CREDIT: jay_boyo_ | November 24, 2020

To celebrate National Novel Writing Month, my creative writing teacher is making us write a 30,000-word novel. That constitutes about a thousand words a day. This is my first novel, so I decide maybe it’d be best to go for a children’s novel. I’m not saying those are easy to write; I just have some experience with storytelling with children.

To cram some words in, I am writing on the bus. It is pretty nice; people are minding their business, and I’m just a dude working on his laptop… until some kid is like, “I’m going to wreck his productivity!” and starts asking me a lot of questions. I don’t necessarily mind, because this is the age range I’m writing for. It’s a pretty open bus, so his mom has sight of both me and him. We bounce ideas back and forth until his mother comes over.

Mom: “Hey, [Kid], what’re you doing?”

Kid: “I’m helping him write!”

Mom: “What’re you writing?”

Me: “I’m writing a children’s novel. Your kid has been a lot of help.”

Mom: “Well, if he’s helped so much, shouldn’t he be able to get a copy for free?”

I then try to explain to her about the editing process, which can take anywhere from a few days to an entire month, and the publishing process, which would take about half a month to a full month. I also tell her that I’m not even done with it yet. I am barely halfway through the seventh chapter. The kid’s opinions and suggestions might not even come through in the published version.

She then goes OFF about how her son should be compensated for his ideas and how he should at least have a free copy when it is out.

Me: “Oh, I’m planning on selling this on Amazon. I’m publishing under [My Pen Name].”

She continued to say her son should get a free copy. I just got off the bus.

Being Salty Will Result In The Cold Shoulder

, , , , | Friendly | CREDIT: 3colt3/ | November 23, 2020

I live in an apartment complex. There’s a row of four apartments with another four on the same lot, facing each other, owned by the same guy. It snowed a bit yesterday, so today when I got up I decided to help my landlord out since he is an older gentleman, and I grabbed my trusty snow shovel.

I started with our walkways leading up to the sidewalk and then started on the part that goes around back to the garages between the two quadplexes. Just my luck, our side drifted, and six inches of snow turned into a thigh-deep battle.

I’m maybe halfway done with my battle with the drift when someone from the other quadplex comes out and heads for the garages. Our two walkways are separated by about five feet of grass and her side is mostly clear. As this woman I’ve seen once and never spoken to passes me, she flaps her hand to get my attention.

Woman: “Excuuuuuse me!”

After about half a second of her flappy-birding me, I glance up.

Me: “Yes?”

She waves her hand in the general direction of her apartment.

Woman: “Put salt on my stair once you’re finished.”

My. Brain. Goes. Wild! So many things I could say. So many! So much opportunity for shenanigans! Malicious compliance? Petty revenge? But I’m not much for making people too mad if I can help it. I just try to be nice as a first option. I smile at her.

Me: *In a super cheerful voice* “Sorry, don’t have any!”

Woman: “Why not? That’s super dangerous! See all this snow? What if I slip? What company do you work for? What the name of it? I’m going to call up my landlord and have your companies contract cancelled!”

My smiled just gets bigger and bigger as she is talking.

Me: “Lady, I don’t work here; I live here.”

I pointed to my living room window. Her face went instantly red. I was going to mess with her a bit more, but she just muttered something under her breath and hurried off. It gave me the laugh I needed to finish out my morning.

But wait. There’s more!

She actually called the landlord! She claimed I swore at her and she complained that I didn’t shovel her stairs; she said nothing about salt, though. Apparently, she makes monthly complaints about all sorts of things. The takeaway of our conversation with the landlord was that this was a normal interaction with this woman and unless someone is dying, I should ignore her for my own sake.