Variations on a Theme by This American Life

It happened because I was hitchhiking.

It happened because he was a creep. Maybe he thought, Those hippie girls. They have it coming.

It happened because I was standing on the corner of Dwight and Telegraph, and all the stores were closed.

It happened because he didn’t like his car. Or his life.

It happened because I was wearing a green silk dress.

It happened because he thought, Why the hell not? Who’s going to stop me?

It happened because I got into his car.

It happened because he wanted it to happen. He’d even remembered to bring a knife.

I can’t remember what he said, but I remember where he said it. On one of those intersections that make a V onto Telegraph Avenue, there used to be some kind of field. He pulled the car over. He showed me the knife.

I don’t remember feeling scared. I remember feeling exasperated: Jesus H. Christ.

I think maybe he was scared. He couldn’t get hard. He tried to make me make him hard. No, I said. Why didn’t I get out of the car?

His dick was really small. Red.

I could have gotten out of the car. Maybe.

It happened because I didn’t get out of the car.

He fumbled around with it. There’s really not much you can do in the front seat of a car.

Afterwards, he was filled with remorse. He wanted to drive me home! I think maybe he thought this was some kind of cute meet. That we were friends now. You really shouldn’t hitchhike, he said. It’s not safe.

No, I said. To him wanting to drive me home.

I walked home.

I lived with Jean-Luc in an apartment over a storefront that billed itself as the Independent Driving School. Except sometimes, it wasn’t the Independent Driving School. Sometimes, it was a tax preparation service. Other times, it was an adult bookstore.

I don’t remember what the storefront was that day, but I remember that Jean-Luc burst out crying when I told him what happened, and I thought, Why are you crying?

After that, the memories get mixed up. I remember a cop telling me, Well, you can report it, but it’s likely nothing’s going to happen. Your choice.

I remember thinking, I really wish Jean-Luc would stop carrying on.

I remember a hospital room.

Two days later, I was on a flight to New York. Was I walking for Zandra Rhodes? I don’t remember. I do remember that the ultra-successful Broadway producer I was seeing in New York in those days bought me an expensive dinner that I hardly touched, whisked me back to his opulent West End Avenue apartment, asked for a blowjob.

No, I said. It’s not going to happen.