Lucy on the Floor
I’ll never forget that first time. Stay put. I’ll tell you all about it.
Chet – he’s my ex – he’d been gone for months and I couldn’t stand the thought of spending another Friday night at home staring at the baby monitor. Waiting for something.
So, I’d asked Mrs. Sawicki to watch the baby because I was going out. I was sick of drinking wine from a fucking box. I needed some people around. But not to talk to, you know? And something good and strong to numb the rage. Fucking Chet and his little whore.
My friends of course had been trying to get me to go out with them for weeks. I was not in the mood to hear their cute stories about the dumbass things their husbands did all week. They stopped asking after a while.
So I went down to Lucky Sevens. There’d be no one I knew there. First time in, I felt at home instantly. Low lights. Cigarette smoke. Boozy smell from the carpet. Not much talking. Just men staring down at their glasses. Jukebox tunes. What was that? Vic Damone, I think. Sad.
The bartender. That old fuck with warts all over his face? Willie, that’s it. He tells me he got just the thing for a woman with my…problems.
So he turns some bottles over into a big sixteen-ounce glass. I see tequila. And blackberry brandy. I’m thinking I’m gonna be on my ass after a few tugs of this.
He brings it to me and I take a pull. It’s fruity. A little. After a few more sips, I got this warm glow dancing up and down my thighs and forearms. I feel stupendous. Happy. But more than anything else, I feel powerful. I ain’t scared no more. That drink made me feel like it’s my turn to run things.
Well, I get up on the parquet floor and start dancing. Real sexy dancing. Those drunks take a peek. Willie says there was enough booze in that drink to kill a rhino. But me? I’m out on the floor. Swinging my ass to Tony Bennet. I feel like Xena. A warrior. Not to be fucked with. For once in my life.
That night, right then and there, Willie named that drink the Lucy on the Floor.
Because of the dancing. Not what you were probably thinking, love.
And I killed my first loser that night. Right in this basement.
Don’t strain so hard, baby. You’ll hurt your wrists. Too tight?
Oh, I’ve met lots of losers, just like you, at the Lucky Sevens. And other places too.
Nothing like a little dancing to put some lead in the pencil, right? And absolutely nothing like a Lucy on the Floor to keep you quiet.
I’m gonna go to the kitchen. Get my tools and another drink.
Don’t worry, hon, I’ll be back down on the floor with you.
We’re gonna fly to the moon.
Well, at least I am.
This story was submitted to Chuck Wendig’s site, for the terribleminds flash fiction challenge. So the challenge was to write a story with a cocktail as the title. Limit: 500 words. I looked around online. I passed up Satan’s Whiskers, and The Purple Pimp. Finally “Lucy on the Floor” spoke to me and the story you just read (hopefully) was born. By the way, if you like any of the stories you find here, check out Chuck Wendig’s site. It is not, however, for anyone with, shall we say, delicate sensibilities. Enjoy!
Oh, one last thing: the ingredients for the real Lucy on the Floor:
1 shot After Shock Blue
2 shots Blackberry Brandy
3 shots white tequila
¼ orange juice
¼ cranberry juice
Image above by centralasian.