She paused, getting a pretty good response, and said, "It was a rental, but it did the job."

More laughs this time, the audience warming up to her conversational delivery, Debbie holding back, not giving it too much.

"I was stopped for a light on Collins Avenue, Miami Beach, and there was Randy, Mr. Cool in his yachting cap and shades, he's crossing the street right in front of me as the light turned green."

A few laughs now in anticipation.

"I said to the arresting officer, 'But I had the right of way.'" More laughter and she shook her head at the audience. "Randy's another story. He seemed like such a sweet, fun guy, a real free spirit. How many people do you know have a pet bat flying around the house?"

Debbie hunched her shoulders and ducked her head, waving her hand in the air. Now she stood with her eyes raised, a cautious expression, until she shook her head again.

"By the time the bat disappeared I'd come to suspect Randy was a snake. There were certain clues.., like his old skin lying on the bathroom floor. So when I noticed the bat was no longer around, I thought, My God, he ate it."

Some laughs, but not the response she'd hoped for.

"But his molting wasn't the worst." She waited for the few laughs that came from people who knew what molting meant. "Finding out he had another wife at the same time we were married didn't sit too well. Or the fact he used up my credit cards and cleaned me out before he skipped. So when I happened to see him crossing the street… I thought, Where can I get a semi, quick? Like an eighteen-wheeler loaded with scrap metal. You know, do it right. Or do it again-I thought about this later-as soon as Randy's out of his body cast. But by then I'd been brought to trial, convicted, and was one of six hundred ladies making up the population of a women's correctional institution, double-fenced with razor wire."

Debbie held the sack dress away from her legs as though she might curtsy.

"This is the latest in prison couture. Can you imagine six hundred women all wearing the same dress? You're also given a blue-denim ensembleshirt, jacket, and slacks with a white stripe down the sides.

You can wear the jacket with the dress if you like to mix and match.

You're given underwear and two bras that come in one-size-fitsall… Honest. You knot the straps trying to get the bra to fit, and you keep knotting till you get your release."

Debbie had reached into the dress to fool with the straps and could feel the audience with her. Especially the women.

"I thought of stuffing the cups, but you're only given four pairs of socks. The dress, by the way, comes in small, medium, large, and extra-large." She held the skirt away from her legs again. "This is the small. I made a suggestion to the superintendent one time, a nice guy, I said, 'Why don't you offer more smaller sizes, even a petite, and send all the ladies who wear extra-large to a men's facility?'

As you might imagine, large women have a way of making the prison experience more to their liking. The kind of thing that can happen…"

Debbie raised her face, eyes closed, and moved her hands over her arms and shoulders, her breasts.

"Imagine luxuriating in the shower, rubbing yourself all over with the industrial-strength soap they give you.., the water soothing, rinsing the blood from your abrasions, and you hear a voice murmur, 'Mmmmmm, you pretty all over.' You think fast, knowing what you'll see when you open your eyes."

Debbie turned her head to one side and looked up, way up, as if gazing at someone at least seven feet tall.

" 'Hey, Rubella, how you doing, girl?' You want to keep reminding Rubella she's a girl. 'Girl, you feel like a cocktail? I've got some hairspray if you have the Seven-Up.' Or, 'You want me to fix your hair? Get me a dozen pairs of shoelaces and I'll make you some cool extensions.'"

Debbie had been looking up with a hopeful smile. Now she turned to the room with a solemn expression.

"And if you can't think of a way to distract a three-hundred-pound sexual predator, you're fucked. Literally. Whatever way Rubella wants to perform the act."

It was working and she felt more sure of herself, the audience laughing on cue, waiting for the next line.

"Actually, though, being molested or raped by some tough broad isn't as common as you might think. Girl prison movies like Hot Chicks in the Slammer, with inmates running around in these cute Victoria's Secret prison outfits? It isn't anything like that. No, in women's facilities chicks form family groups. The older ones, usually in for murder, are mothers… Really. There may be a father played by a dyke senior citizen. There are sisters and what pass for brothers.

And there are, of course, chicks with chicks. Hey, even in the joint love is in the air. What I did, whenever one of the chicks found me attractive, I'd go, 'Oh, hon, I hate to tell you this but I'm HIV positive.'

And it worked until this one grins at me and goes, 'I am, too, sweetie pie.' No, my most serious problem inside… What do you think it was?"

A male voice called out, "The food."

"The food's another story," Debbie said, "but not my number one complaint."

Another male voice said, "Standing in line."

And Debbie smiled, one hand shading her eyes as she looked out at the audience. "You've been there, haven't you? You know about standing in line. And what happens to anyone who tries to cut in? You can buy your way in, give someone in the canteen line a couple of cigarettes and she comes out and you take her place-that's okay. But if anyone tries to cut in…? Listen, since I'm home I do all my grocery shopping at two h.t., so I won't have to stand in line. If I happen to shop during the day, I never buy more items than the express checkout will take, like ten items or less. I watch the woman in front of me unloading her cart and I count the items. If she has more than ten? Even one more? I turn the bitch in. I do, I blow the whistle on her, demand they put her in a no-limit checkout line. I know my rights. Listen, even if the bitch picks up some Tic-Tacs or a pack of Juicy Fruit, and it puts her over ten items? She's out of there if I have to shove her out myself."

Debbie had struck a defiant pose. She began to relax and then stiffened again.

"And if some guy in a hurry tries to step in front of me?… You know the kind. 'Mind if I go ahead of you? I just have this one item.'

A case of Rolling Rock under his arm. Do I mind? All he has to do is make the move I've got a razor blade off the rack ready to cut him… and I'm back with the ladies on another aggravated assault conviction.

Let me just say, you haven't waited in line till you've waited in line in prison. But even that wasn't the worst thing. To me, anyway."

Debbie paused to look over the room and the audience waited.

"I should tell you, a number of my dorm mates were in for first- or second-degree murder. Brenda, LaDonna, Laquanda, Tanisha, Rubella you've met, Shanniqua, Tanniqua and Pam, two Kimberleys who went bad and a Bobbi Joe Lee, who played a couple of seasons with the Miami Dolphins till they found out she was a chick. There are ladies you don't want to mess with unless you're behind the wheel of a Buick Riviera, with the doors locked. So in the evening when it's time to turn on the TV? Guess who decides what we watch. Me? Or bigger-than-life Rubella. Me? Or the suburban housewife who shot her husband seven times and told the cops she thought he was a home invader.., coming in the back door with a sack of groceries, four in the afternoon?" Debbie paused. "To me, the worst thing about prison was a sitcom the dorm ladies watched every evening on local cable TV. Guess what it was."