Cups and bags

Working the night shift at the radio station always made Mobius feel as if he lived his life upside down. While everyone was just getting the day started, he was trying to figure out something to do after work. Going home and talking with the cats didn't always satisfy him. Walking home, he would think about stoping in for a beer, while people passing him would be on their second cup of coffee. While he wanted a burger and fries, they eyed the donuts in the curved glass while waiting for their bagel. Forget about dating. The closest he got to a date was talking with a lonely caller who wanted to hear some love song-- "Hi, how are you tonight, can you play 'All My Life' by K-Ci & JoJo?" or "Hello? Hey, play "Every Rose Has it's Thorns. Thanks." "Sure," thought Mobius, "for the millionth time." Every time Mobius plays a cheese song he follows it with Pearl Jam, or Neil Young. When he really felt like keeping people in misery he'd play Johnny Cash. The shift was over and Mobius handed over the reins to the next guy, Phil, "The morning dude." January, the trees stood as outlines in the morning gray. The air was still. "Snow." He thought. "By noon." He glanced at the statue. Every night, he had to read the news. "The police are still searching for leads." Mobius read into the mic. He thought, "Idiots." Still no real leads on the fountain crime. A few suspects, but nothing was solid. That's why Mobius jumped when the first knock on the studio door came around Halloween. The diner owner was all about the drama. Sending Pickett to his door at 1 AM. Really? Couldn't he call? Couldn't he just set-up a meeting during the day? Jesus. But Pickett played the part. "Hello? Hello? I was sent by Mr. P., from the diner." "Jesus." "Um, do you have something for him?" "Jesus." "Sorry?" "Yes, yes, come in. Sit over there and don't touch the vinyl." "Wow, what a great collection of LP's. I didn't know people still had them." Mobius looked at the guy. "What's your name?" "Um.. should I say it? I mean." Mobius realized that this guy thought it was a drug deal. "Yes, you can." He handed the guy the paper bag. "Pickett, George Pickett." "Like the Civil Wa--" "--Yes, the same one." "Okay. Mobius is my name." "Kinda, ah, different." "Yep. Tell the Greek he owes me for the last batch of herbs, too." "Oh, okay." "Got change the record." "Oh, yeah, sorry." Mobius smiled as he was closing the door. The Greek was a drama queen. Mobius grew herbs, oregano, basil -- all legal kinds-- in the spare room in his loft. The room had a huge window that faced south. Great light for plants of all kinds. The Greek wanted the herbs for his food. Fresh herbs really didn't help the food, but he paid. Mobius smiled when he thought of Pickett's furtive glances as he stumbled back to the diner and hoping that he wasn't stopped by anyone. Why worry about the little things with a killer around? As Mobius heads into his building, old Ms. King is standing by the elevator. "Mr. Evans!" "Yes ma'm?" "Will you ride the elevator up with me?" "Um, yes, of course, Ms. King." "Mr. Evans, I can't ride this thing alone. Not with a murderer on the loose!" "You're right, Ms. King, you're right." Mobius held the door for Ms. King. He thought about making Ms. King a nice cup of tea.