Standing By

Finding Mitch

(Scott)

I awoke with a start, sitting up straight in bed. I glanced around, not entirely sure what had woken me up. There was nothing around that could have made a noise to awaken me. The alarm clock was silent and I didn't have a clue where my phone was. I frowned at the other side of the bed, completely empty. Where the hell was Mitch? I crawled up and gout out of bed, calling his name.

"Mitch? Mitchie? Where are you?" The bathroom door was closed so I knocked on it twice. No answer, so I pushed it open. "Mitch?" Nope, empty. Not on the toilet, not a middle of the night shower, not by the sink. I spun around and went into his room through the connecting doors. "Mitch? Mi-itch!" Not in his bed. Not by his suitcase, not by the window, not by the mirror. I made my way to his bathroom and knocked twice again. Nothing. No answer. This time I flung it open. "Miiitch!" Goddamn, where was he? I glanced at the door, then down at myself. Stepping into the hallway would require pants. I raced back into my room and quickly pulled on my jeans. I started to push the door open, but at last minute, ran back and grabbed my wallet and key. I would definitely need the key, and never know when I might need my wallet. I looked around for my phone for a few minutes but couldn't find it. I grabbed Mitch's jeans and felt around to see if he had left his and was rewarded with my fingers hitting its hard case. I pulled it out and stuck it in my own pocket. OK, now, think, Hoying, what else could you possibly need? Where could he have gone? Be logical, I told myself. Logic wasn't exactly calming my racing heart though. I wasn't even sure why my heart was racing. I took a couple of deep breaths and walked around the hall and the floor for a few minutes, checking in the laundry room, ice machine area, and lounge. I even tried to open the cleaning closets, which were, of course, locked tight. Not like Mitch would be playing hide and seek in cleaning closets anyway. He hated cleaning. Sometimes it was all I could do to get him to pick up his room at home. We can't do Superfruit videos in a pigsty, I'd always tell hem—and he'd always respond my oinking at me. I smiled at the memory.

Not sure if he'd use the stairway for fear he'd get stuck in an elevator, or use the elevator for fear of falling and breaking his other arm, I trotted down the stairwell. I crossed the lobby and checked the other stairwell. I would leave no stone unturned in trying to find my Mitchie. I crossed the lobby again to check the restaurant, which was closed at this time of night, then again to look in the library. Reading wasn't his favorite thing to do, but maybe he couldn't fall asleep and needed something to put him to sleep.

"Why is Scott Hoying walking back and forth in our lobby a gazillion times here?" the late night receptionist asked an older lady. I hadn't even noticed them before. I whipped around. Maybe they'd seen Mitch.

"Is he a singer too?" the older lady asked the other one.

"Have you seen Mitch Grassi?" I asked, now heading straight across the lobby to the desk. "Dark hair and eyes, 5'9", 165 pounds?"

"We know what Mitch Grassi looks like," the younger one giggled. "I don't live under a rock."

"Thanks, Hannah," the older one said dryly. "Are you implying that I do, since I'm not familiar with their music?"

Hannah shrugged. "You should listen to them. They're really good."

OK, clearly, I needed to repeat the question. "I asked if you'd seen Mitch Grassi," I reiterated. "Have you?"

"Yeah," Hannah said.

I actually jumped a little at the affirmation. "You have? Down here? Tonight? Recently?"

"About half an hour ago," the older one said, nodding.

Half an hour ago? That was a long time. He could be anywhere by now. What was he doing in the lobby in the middle of the night anyway? "Well, where'd he go? What was he doing?"