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 a.m., 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."
Chapter 8.
DEBBIE CAME OUT TO THE lobby bar wearing jeans and a light raincoat, her prison dress and shoes in a canvas bag. She saw Fran waiting and was sure he'd say something about the set--nice going, anything. No, her first gig in more than three years and Fran goes, "Here, I want you to meet my brother."
The one turning from the bar with a drink in his hand, Fr. Terry Dunn, black Irish in a black wool parka, the hood hanging about his shoulders. Now she saw him as a friar, the beard, the gaunt face, giving him kind of a Saint Francis of Assisi look. He came right out with what she wanted to hear: "You were terrific"--with a nice smile--"really funny, and you made it look easy, the conversational style."
"That either works," Fran said, "or it doesn't." Fran serious about it. "You have to have the personality and be naturally funny. You know what I mean? Not just recite punch lines." He said, "Debbie, this is my brother Terry."
He held her gaze as they shook hands, still with the nice smile. She glanced at Fran and back to the priest.
"I don't have to call you Father?"
He said, "I wouldn't."
Now she didn't know what to say. How was Africa? But then wondered if they were there for the whole set. "I didn't see you before I went on."
"You'd just come out," Fran said, "giving your DOC number as we sat down, in back."
Terry was nodding. "You were about to run into your ex with the Buick."
"The Buick Riviera," Debbie said.
He smiled again. "I
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 a.m., 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."
Chapter 8.
DEBBIE CAME OUT TO THE lobby bar wearing jeans and a light raincoat, her prison dress and shoes in a canvas bag. She saw Fran waiting and was sure he'd say something about the set--nice going, anything. No, her first gig in more than three years and Fran goes, "Here, I want you to meet my brother."
The one turning from the bar with a drink in his hand, Fr. Terry Dunn, black Irish in a black wool parka, the hood hanging about his shoulders. Now she saw him as a friar, the beard, the gaunt face, giving him kind of a Saint Francis of Assisi look. He came right out with what she wanted to hear: "You were terrific"--with a nice smile--"really funny, and you made it look easy, the conversational style."
"That either works," Fran said, "or it doesn't." Fran serious about it. "You have to have the personality and be naturally funny. You know what I mean? Not just recite punch lines." He said, "Debbie, this is my brother Terry."
He held her gaze as they shook hands, still with the nice smile. She glanced at Fran and back to the priest.
"I don't have to call you Father?"
He said, "I wouldn't."
Now she didn't know what to say. How was Africa? But then wondered if they were there for the whole set. "I didn't see you before I went on."
"You'd just come out," Fran said, "giving your DOC number as we sat down, in back."
Terry was nodding. "You were about to run into your ex with the Buick."
"The Buick Riviera," Debbie said.
He smiled again. "I
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