If Lucky Chances wasn't the worst singles bar in South Florida, it's only because the Board of Health had closed down the others. There were just so many hepatitis cases one county could handle at a time.

Woodrow Aye arrived at happy hour promptly at 6:07 p.m., just after clocking out from the big box retailer that kept him gainfully employed, assuming wearing a blue vest and bitching about the Miami sports teams constituted work. After a few spritzes of Drakkar Noir and a drive-thru dinner at BurgerFace, Woodrow walked into Lucky Chance’s darkened lounge, single and ready to mingle. 

Peggy Legg, “Peg” to her friends, had been kicked in the face almost every day of her life since her nouveau riche parents decided to have fun when they named her. Her dad was a dot com millionaire and her mom modeled bikinis on TikTok. 

Peg had a trust fund with more zeros than Lucky Chances, but she was determined never to buy her own drink. When she saw Woodrow walk in, she hated him right away, so naturally, she headed to the bar and sat down on the stool next to him.

“Hey,” she said to him, more of an accusation than a greeting. She noticed he was even sweatier up close.

“Hay is for horses,” replied Woodrow, taken off guard by a female coming on to him. Like a dying shark, he was used to circling the bar and making a nuisance of himself until he was shot down. Occasionally, Woodrow got lucky waiting for cheap alcohol and loneliness to wear down some girl. Maybe tonight was his night? 

Challenge accepted, Peg thought to herself as she waived down the bartender and ordered her first drink. 

“Gimme a shot of Johnnie Walker Blue, and put it on Gomer’s tab.”

“But Miss...”

“But nothing, you heard me.”Peg turned back towards her prey. “My name is Peggy Legg, Gomer. I’ll sit here with you as long as you keep my glass full and your hands to yourself.”

“Whatever you say, Captain Ahab, as long as you don’t make me walk the plank.” Woodrow responded, looking down at Peggy’s gams. “Do you have a hook for a hand, too?”

“Well, unless you prefer your hand or a hooker, I suggest you listen to my proposition.”

“You’re propositioning me?” Woodrow leered. 

“Yes,” she replied. “And I’m going to help you score tonight.”

“Why?” Woodrow eyed her suspiciously. 

“For revenge,” she replied, draining her drink. “This is how it’s going to go. You’re a 3, maybe a 4 on a good night. I’m a solid 8.”

“All true.”

“My parents are dining next door at Au Revoir. We’re going over to ruin their dinner, then we’ll come back here. These bar rats will wonder why I’m all over you, then they’ll try to steal your affections.”

“I like it, Peg Legg. But if we’re going to be in cahoots—you need to stop calling me Gomer.”

“Fine, what the hell is your real name?” 

“If you must know, it’s Woodrow—Woodrow Nevil Aye.”

“Are you kidding me? Wood N. Aye?”

“Peg Legg! Peg Legg!”  

The two misfits broke out into laughter that lasted long enough for Woodrow to get his blue vest from the car. 

“Wait,” Peggy said, grabbing Woodrow’s arm before reaching into her purse. “Let’s do this right.” And with that in mind, she caked on bright red lipstick, planted a big kiss on Woodrow's cheek, then took his arm and led him into Au Revoir.

It wasn’t hard to spot her parents and relatives already a dozen bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon down. 

“Sorry, we’re late,” Peggy said, as both Leggs looked up at their daughter in horror. Her limbs were entwined with a bloated, weak-chinned man with a bad combover. “I just picked up my fiancé from Walmart…”

“Sam’s Club,” Woodrow interrupted. “I’m a merchandise associate.” 

“So you stock shelves,” Mr. Legg said, taking in Woodrow’s cheap polyester shirt, badly fitted khakis, and blue vest. Their family and friends giggled into their menus.

“No, but my manager said if I work really hard I might be able to stock shelves in a year or two. By the way, my name is Woodrow. Should I call you dad?” 

“Hardly,” Peggy’s father shot back. “My name is Harold, and don’t you forget it.”

“You’re Harry Legg? Well, shut my mouth. And you must be Peggy’s mom. I think I’ve seen you on Tik Tok. You used to be so good-looking.”

“Used to be?”

“Don’t fret it, mom. I’d still do you,” Woodrow said before looking at Peggy. “If that’s alright with you, darling?”

“Why not keep it in the family?” Peggy replied, shrugging her shoulders. “Just like mom does with Uncle Armando. Mom, doesn’t Armando film all your TikTok videos by the pool—especially when Dad’s not home?”

An apoplectic Harry Legg turned to his red-faced wife.

“My brother? You whore!”

“Honey, please! It’s not what you think.” 

“Are you going to cost me Armando Legg?” Her husband stood up, threw his napkin on the table, and prepared to storm out of the Au Revoir.

“If Harold doesn’t want you, then I do!” cried Armando from the table's far end. He walked over to the two shaking Leggs. 

Peggy’s mother fainted from all of the commotion. Armando gallantly caught her head before it hit the table. Incensed, Harold grabbed her lower half.

“Stop pulling my Legg!” Armando screamed. 

"You are embarrassing yourself!" Harry Legg yelled at his brother. "Leave here with your tail between your—"

“I think our work is done here,” Woodrow said grabbing his Legg by the arm. 

“I think you’re right, and by the way, you’re actually not half bad,” Peggy grinned, giving her Aye the eye. “How about we give this thing a go for real?” 

“You’re not afraid of losing your parents' affection? I don’t want to come between your Leggs.”

“They’ll be fine. Now let's shake a Legg and let's get out of here.”

“Fan-damn-tastic. Would you like to go to Sam's Club, grab a box of wine and a bag of meat sticks, then head back to my place?”

“Would I!”

“Peg Legg! Peg Legg!”