Page 17 of The Home Grown
The lobby is empty as I gaze through the window trying to come up with a plan ‘B’. But since it looks like the only way in is to use a door access fob, or likely, someone buzzing you in via the intercom, I’m faced with two options: wait until someone comes or leaves and ask them, or press every single button onthe calling system. Here’s hoping someone will give me some information, or—best-case scenario—I buzz Mike’s apartment on the first try.
I wait it out, but after ten minutes of no one either leaving or returning home, I’m forced to push aside my pride and start ringing some apartments, because the longer I stand here, the more damp and uncomfortable I become.
There’s a metal panel on the left-hand side of the main door, two rows of buttons, each with a number etched above. I study the panel, wishing for another idea to float into my head but nothing comes.
Nothing.
I brace myself for the awkward conversation before pressing the button for ‘101’.
Several seconds pass as it rings out, and likewise, 102. I move on to 201 and someone does eventually answer, but they hang up almost instantly when I mention Mike’s name, which doesn’t give me a good feeling.
I’m wondering if this really is the right building or if that teammate of his was simply visiting a friend, but apartment 301 gives me the reassurance I need.
“He may or may not live in this building,” the voice says. “Who’s asking?”
“Ellie,” I say.
“Are you sure?” the voice says back.
“Yes…”
There’s a beat of silence before the voice carries on, a sceptical tone coming through the speaker.
“Right. So, this definitely isn’t Rochelle? Or Leah? Or…”
God—my sister was right. Heisthe type.
“No … my name is Ellie. I’m—” I can’t bring myself to say I’m an old friend. Friend is too strong a word. “—and I’m wondering if you know how I can get a hold of him?”
“Has he blocked your number? Because that’s a telltale sign he ain’t interested,” the voice says.
“No, no—it’s a long story. I’ve not seen him in a long time.”
“Probably a good reason for that—look, I’ve got to go.”
The intercom cuts, and I exhale in frustration.
My first instinct is to call them back, trying to explain myself but my embarrassment forces me to move on, so I press the call button for the next apartment, gearing myself up for more difficult conversation.
Someone picks up after only a couple of rings out.
“Hello?”
“Hi, I’m looking for—I’m looking for Mike.”
“Who?”
“Michael Betts. Do you?—”
“Ah, yeah, Bettsy. Fifth floor.”
There’s a click as Mr 302 hangs up, and I celebrate the tiny win of not needing to call anyone on the fourth floor but allowing myself a second to breathe.
I try 501. It rings and rings, eventually cutting off, so I move on. 502 sounds like it’s going to be the same, until a second before I’m about to give up, the line turns fuzzy as someone answers.
“Yeah?”
The voice is curt, like I’m keeping someone from doing something important, so instead of dragging out an introduction, I dive straight in.
