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waiting for the gravy train	By : luna65 Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Pink Floyd Views: 859 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Pink Floyd. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-waiting for the gravy train
- 1
“Would you care to breakfast outside, sir?”

David gave the waiter a wry grimace. “Isn’t it cold?”

“This side of the building is shielded from the wind, sir. And there’s a lovely view.”

A sleepy shrug. “Alright then.”

The waiter brought the tray over to the sliding glass door and opened it. Though the air which entered the room was fresh it wasn’t overly chilly. David put on a jumper and waited till the waiter had finished putting everything out. He signed the check, handed the man a twenty-dollar bill, and murmured thank you as he’d always been taught to do.

The waiter was right, it was a lovely view – New York City was endlessly fascinating in an alien sort of way. Though he was no stranger to large cosmopolitan cities, New York had its’ own special vibe: a pressure cooker with pockets of charm, a genteel whistle stop with a dangerous edge. He understood New York was not America, it was merely itself, while other big cities could be said to be an experience of their host countries writ large. David looked over the tops of a dozen buildings, equally stark and fanciful against the backdrop of an early Spring azure sky. A few clouds hovered towards the East, probably over the harbor, and rays of sun sliced the air between buildings, dazzling the edifices and the scenery entire.

David put his feet up on the opposite chair and placed a teabag in a cup, adding hot water, then removed the cover from a plate, inspecting his eggs. They were a bit more runny than he liked, but he ate them anyway, mopping up the residue with pieces of toast and sausage, as he internally bemoaned the inability of Americans to cook a good fry-up. The ambient sounds of the street eventually faded as he listened to the swallows riding the air currents and the pigeons which cooed, sometimes with territorial menace, from atop the building across the street. He had been unable to sleep after leaving Roger’s room before daybreak, clicking his way through the detritus of early-morning American television and finally calling room service at six AM.

A sharp but familiar rap sounded upon the door and David called out “Yeah?”

Roger threw open the door with a dramatic bang and appeared wholly himself: clad in black and looking annoyed.

“It’s official,” he announced, “the sycophants have taken over the asylum.”

“What are you on about?” David replied, as Roger entered the room and closed the door behind him.

“There were three, three people from the record company outside my bloody door!”

“Christ!” David exclaimed as Roger joined him on the balcony, pushing David’s feet from the chair, seating himself, and preparing his own cup of tea. “S’a good thing I left when I did, then.”

“They wanted to know if I was up for a bit of sightseeing. I s’pose they didn’t know we’ve already been here five fucking times.”

“Well, there’s always something to see, y’know.”

“Had to be rather rude to get them to clear off, I swear the Yanks are so obtuse sometimes. And look, one of them gave me this.”

Roger reached into the pocket of his blazer and produced a cigar from a slim wooden case.

“The bloke said it was Cuban. The very best.”

“Isn’t there an embargo or something?”

“Likely. So shall we try it?”

“Eh, why not?”

“Going to eat that?” Roger asked, nodding his head towards a bowl which contained slices of orange.

“Yes darling, get your own brekkie, alright?”

“Not really hungry, actually. But I do so love the oranges here. Always reminds me of California, the oranges do. But why do people keep giving me things?”

“They must unconsciously sense your inherent neediness.”

“Shut it, wanker,” Roger muttered as he took the knife from the tray and after wiping it clean with a napkin carefully cut off the tip of the cigar where the outer layer of the wrapper ended. Then he took his lighter out of his pocket and clicked it to life, running the cigar just beyond the flame, then holding the tip above it for about a minute. Even with the appropriate preparation it took him a few minutes to get the cigar going, during which David had eaten all of his orange save one slice, which he handed to Roger after he had taken a couple draws to get it burning properly.

“Oh aren’t you thoughtful,” Roger quipped, and handed David the cigar.

“One tries.” David took a puff and as he blew out the smoke he had to choke back a cough. “Gah, that’s strong.”

“Is it?” Roger asked, licking juice from his fingers. “Didn’t seem any different to me.”

“S’pose it tastes better if you’re drinking coffee.”

“Oh yes.” Roger took it back and had a few puffs, looking out at the view. “The first time I smoked a cigar I think we were somewhere in Turkey, I remember I coughed so much I thought I was going to pass out. The shisha was much easier to smoke.”

“I didn’t try one till we’d gone to Spain, someone gave Willie a whole box in lieu of our wages one week, I think. We felt like gangsters or some such. We ended up trading most of them for food, as I recall.”

“I still can’t believe I found my way back home all on my own,” Roger mused. A moment of silence followed

“I’m going to Manny’s, though they don’t open till ten. Wanna come?”

“I think I’ll go to The Strand, see if I can find a few interesting books.”

“Mmm.” David took a turn with the cigar, taking a much more conservative puff. “So did the guy just hand it to you?”

“Yeah, he said, ‘Here, have a cigar, I’ve got dozens. Whatever you want.’ Do I look like the sort who smokes cigars?”

“You might, though this is rather the wrong sort of situation, isn’t it? One needs a library and a glass of port.”

Roger snickered and took another puff. “Just the sort of thing I despise.” He trimmed the ash into the now-empty bowl.

“Naturally,” David replied, but rolled his eyes. He didn’t see what was wrong with being traditional, at least once in a while. It brought to mind other times in which they done much the same thing, sharing a smoke and a rambling conversation, though the substance in question was usually even more illicit than a banned cigar.

“They’re trying to tempt us, y’know. Trying to woo us so we’ll ease up on the terms.”

“Steve will stand fast, you know that. He's already got Menon by the balls.”

“Speaking of, y’just left me, like a groupie. I’m quite miffed.”

“Darling, if you were a groupie you’d be the one to leave. ‘Sides, I kissed you goodbye. It’s not my fault you were completely comatose and didn’t even notice.”

Roger extended the cigar and David held up a hand.

“I’ve had enough, thanks.”

Roger put it in his mouth and spoke around it with a grin. “Do I look like a mucky-muck, hmm?”

David laughed. “Hardly, prat. Gonna smoke that whole thing?”

“Well it is a Cuban.”

“Yes, but, they can get us more, can’t they? And it’s going to make you sick, I wager.”

“Do you? What’s on the line?”

“Hmm. How ‘bout you come with me to Manny’s.”

“Christ Dave, you’d think there was nothing else in the entire city but that bloody shop.”

“Only because you’d be buying me my heart’s desire. And if you succeed then you could do the same.”

“That’s always your wager. Nah, if I prevail you owe me a bag of oranges, which you will then feed to me.”

“Sounds like a sticky prospect,” David quipped, then finished off his tea.

“That’s what I’m hoping, lover,” Roger replied, and took a long draw on the cigar with the confidence of a man who had never lost a bet. Either way, David planned to make good on Roger’s wish, if for no other reason that he did look rather fetching with that thing, pursing his lips most seductively every time he released the smoke from his mouth.

“You’re on, sir. But if you feel you must spew then aim that way, please.” David pointed beyond the balcony.

Roger laughed. “Oh, now that’s a New York sort of thing, isn’t it? Vomiting onto unsuspecting passersby.”

They laughed in unison and David thought this silly junket might not be so unpleasant after all. He sat back with his hands behind his head and idly wondered if anyone on the Capitol staff was willing to fetch them more caviar. He did so love expensive caviar, and if that could be construed as selling out he was happy to cop to it, his lust for a new guitar momentarily forgotten as he watched white drifts of smoke float out of Roger’s mouth and into the electrified air of Manhattan.
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waiting for the gravy train