Safety Pin Man

The man who tried to rape her wore safety pins jabbed through holes in his earlobes.
Two on the left ear and a whole string on the right.
She met him in Venice Beach around the corner from her boyfriend’s house
the third time the boyfriend stood her up.
Getting pissed seemed pointless until she remembered he had all the pot.

When the war in ’Nam was black-and-white and Dick was tricky
right people called Venice Beach nasty
the righteous called it home
peopled by pushers, the homeless, the hippies, the lost
all fodder for salvation by the Salvation Army and Al-Anon “All Are Welcome”
trying to save souls with handouts of lousy coffee and free cigarettes.
Any school-ditching, pot-smoking hippie chick was bound to feel at home.

Safety pin man found her waiting at the RTD stop, contemplating school
a short, safe bus ride away.
They talked. She hated being stood up.
Safety pin man’s room was a block away
He promised a joint and a laugh.
A half glass of wine and two hits later he knocked the plastic cup aside
shoved her onto the greasy sofa
groped under her miniskirt and ripped away her pantyhose, his jabbing fingers
reaching for places even she hadn’t explored.
His face bent to grab hers in a kiss
lips open to push his tongue her way.
She stopped screaming long enough to bite his lower lip and
grind so her teeth could meet. Tinny blood tainted her mouth.
He clouted the side of her head
and leapt away, hand covering his bleeding face.

The new ’Nam is in a desert and the hippies are fifty
plus and the Army surplus store sells Patagonia now.
“I Heart Venice” t-shirts flip
off tourists terrorized by roller-bladers boasting perfectly tanned bodies
that scream future victim of skin cancer.
A fifty year old school-ditching, pot-smoking hippie could shriek her déjà vu
I hope you die tonight, mother fucker
And feel the echo of the rage that saved her.

Leslie Wolfe-Cundiff