"Hey, I've been there," he said jabbing his thumb into his chest. "I understand. Don't worry." He puffed on his joint and then again offered it.
I shook my head. "No thank you."
"It's good stuff."
"No, thanks," I said. He shrugged.
"More for me," He puffed again.
"Can I get out?" I asked.
"Sure." He leaned back so I could get by him, but as I started past him, he flipped his joint into the front of the van and seized me at the waist.
I started to scream as he turned me around hard and slapped me back on the mattress.
"Come on," he said. "Stay inside. It'll be nicer." He laughed thinly.
"Let me go!" I tried to sit up, but he kept his weight on my shoulders and looked me over. The stink of his marijuana, mingled with the sour smell of his body and clothes, reeked down at me, churning my stomach.
"I can get you into a magazine," he said. "I know lots of photographers real well. You can make serious money."
"No thank you. Now let me up."
"Sure, only first you got to pay the fare."
"What fare?"
"I forgot to tell you. This is like a bus. You get on, you pay the fare."
"I have no money. I told you I was robbed."
"There's other ways to pay." He smiled, revealing uneven teeth streaked with green and brown stains.
He slid his hands over my breasts and then moved down to straddle my legs. Desperate and terrified, I found the glass peanut-butter jar and clutched it like a rock. While he explored under my skirt, I swung the jar with all my strength and struck him on the side of the head. The jar shattered, but it stunned him enough to drive him off me and I jumped up. He howled as I dove for the door. My hand found the handle just as his found the hem of my skirt. He tugged, but I flew forward and he lost his grip.
I stumbled from the van, quickly realizing we were a dozen or so yards from the road. When he appeared in the doorway, a streak of blood ran down
the side of his face. I got to my feet and ran for the road, screaming for help.
He didn't follow. At the highway, I practically ran in front of an oncoming tractor trailer. The driver hit his horn as hard as he hit his brakes. I got across the road just in time, but his truck came to a stop.
The van backed out of the driveway and spun around, kicking up gravel. It headed in the direction from which we had come.
The truck driver got out of his cab and strutted angrily toward me. He was a tall, stout man about fifty. "What do you think you're doing? Do you know you could have caused an accident and been killed? Who--"
"That man tried to rape me!" I cried, pointing to the disappearing van.
He stopped and looked after it.
"I got out and ran just as you were coming. I'm sorry." I gasped, trying to regain my breath.
"Who was he?" he asked.
"I don't know. I was hitchhiking."
"Hitchhiking?" He shook his head. "Where are all the parents in this country?"
I started to cry, the realization of what I had just escaped finally hitting me.