Standing By

Where'd They Go?

(Tim)

 We took the elevator upstairs, probably all feeling like walking zombies. I knew Chance definitely looked like one. He was barely putting one foot in front of the other. I managed to get him into his room, pushing him along, then eyed the room across from mine. Scott's. On impulse, I walked over to it and knocked on it. When I didn't get an answer, I pounded on it a minute. Nothing. OK, next most logical place for him to be was Mitch's room. I knocked on his door for a full minute and failing that, tried the room where I remembered Kirstie had emerged from. Still nothing. Where the hell were they? I didn't have a clue where Kevin's or Avi's rooms were. I took a chance and pounded on the room next to Kirstie's. I heard feet—sounded like several pairs of feet—come to the door, and a dark brown eye peered out at me.

"Who is it, Mike?" a tired-sounding woman asked.

"Uh, some guy with long brown hair and glasses," answered a guy—most definitely not Avi or Kevin.

Oops. I tried to slink away but he threw open his door. "Hey, who the hell are you and why are you banging on our door?"

I hung my head. "So sorry—I was looking for my missing friends."

"Well, they sure as hell aren't in our room!" he snapped, slamming the door closed.

I debated the merits of pounding on the door on the other side of Mitch's. On one hand, it could be my friends, safe and sound, watching a movie on TV. On the other, it could be another complete stranger and I could make a fool out of myself again. Hmm. Make a fool of myself or try it. I scrunched up my face. I was probably overthinking again. But seriously, where were they? I could, of course, call Kevin or Kirstie—if I had a working phone. I was going to have to get that fixed as soon as I get a chance. Chance. Hey, Chance has a working phone. I turned to Chance's room. Sorry, dude, but I'm gonna have to wake you. I knocked on his door for a minute, then took to pounding on it. Come on, open up! Just when I was about to give up, Chance opened the door, bleary-eyed and with tousled hair.

"Dude," he greeted me. "It's late, we're all exhausted, and stressed, and I took a Trazodone ten minutes ago and it's turning me into a stoned sloth."

"Can I use your phone?" I asked. "Please? Mine is broken."

" 's in my pants," he mumbled, dropping back on his bed. "Som'ere"

I started rushing through a pile of clothes tossed haphazardly on a chair. Couple of shirts, some socks, ugh, a pair of underwear, oh, there are a pair of pants. I plunged a hand into the pockets, fishing for his phone, but only pulled out a quarter. I tossed it on the dresser.

"Don't see it here," I told him, but was just answered in a snore. I glanced over at him and saw he was sprawled across the bed, on top of the covers, on his stomach, fast asleep in just his underpants. Okayyy. Never seen someone go to sleep that fast before. I kept searching for the fabled pants. I checked his suitcase, which was perched crookedly on the suitcase stand, and pawed through it. Several pairs of pants but no cell phones. Hmm. I glanced around the room, my eyes glancing over surfaces he might have placed it on. Watch. Wallet. Phone charger. Contacts and glasses things. Inhaler. Three pill bottles. Like the nosy friend I was, I picked them up. Trazodone. Symbicort. Sertraline. There was pocket knife on the bedside table (wonder how he got through airport security with that thing) and a Bible. OK, floor. I saw a pair of pants on the other side of the table, one leg inside out, and went to investigate. Yep, there was the phone. I picked it up and started trying to find any of Pentatonix in his contact list, then the recents. Last phone call was from a Kentucky area code. I raked my memory for anyone he might know in Kentucky but couldn't think of anyone. He'd spent a good ten minutes on the phone with whoever it was, so he must have know them well enough for a lengthy conversation. For kicks and giggles, I pushed the number.