Chapter 1: The Arrest
"I wasn't drunk -- I only had two glasses of wine!"
It's impossible for me to count the number of times I have repeated those words in the past week. I have said them over and over to everybody but nobody believes me. It was just two glasses of wine. Red wine. The Ambrosia of the ages; now the poison of our times.
It's been five years since the White Slave Act of 2000 came into effect so there was no chance to plead ignorance. Not that a respectable woman like me would ever openly discuss the subject. But I knew about it. Everybody in town knew about it -- in the country. Everybody knew at least one woman who had been enslaved under the provisions of it but I never for so much as a second ever imagined I would be one of those women. Not me. Surely, not me. I have never broken the law in my life! Why, at the age of 43, would I risk everything and break the law? Especially the "public drunk enslavement" law. I can't believe I was so stupid.
The bar I went to last Friday had a large, bold notice before you entered that warned "THIS IS A PUBLIC DRUNK ENSLAVEMENT BAR". It couldn't have been more plain a warning. Since the White Slave Act came out, I rarely drank so much as a single drink in a public place for fear of arrest, least of all in a bar. I never go to bars. Not in this day and age. They're just not my type of place and never have been. Not even before the year 2000, or B2K as it's now colloquially known. Why didn't I just go straight home after work, like I normally would do? I would never have gone to this bar if I hadn't let my boss (Nelson) talk me into it. He assured me it was just a regular bar and not one of the myriad of strip clubs that popped up like neon mushrooms over the past five years. He said this place had "ambience" and that it served a selection of fine wines. "All very European" he had said, and I believed him. Of course, it wasn't just me he invited. All the staff at the bookstore where I worked was invited. It was supposed to be a simple, social outing to celebrate a good month of sales. Some celebration it turned out to be.
The bar was as Nelson had described. The refined elegance of a cellar-like room, warmly furnished and intimately lit with soft lights and candles. It appeared to attract an affluent crowd of predominantly older people and had wait staff dressed immaculately in black-and-white uniforms. In fact, it all made me feel like I was back home in England. The wine list, as Nelson had promised, included Californian reds as well as imported ones from Bordeaux and Spain. They even sold Verve Clique which I fondly remembered was called "Old Maid" by all the snobbish wealthy people I knew when I was growing up. In short, it seemed a world removed from the brash reality outside its doors.
Nelson ordered two bottles of Old Maid for the table, and much as I would have enjoyed a glass, champagne has always gone straight to my head so I had him order me a glass of Shiraz instead. It seemed the safe option. The mood of our party was relaxed and jovial and the first glass of wine made me feel especially mellow and warm inside. A second glass was ordered for me, which I accepted without hesitation. I drank slowly and savored the taste. Sure, it was alcohol but it was expensive alcohol. It certainly wasn't the stuff "drunks" drink and with that thought in mind, I let Nelson buy me a third glass but on the proviso we ordered something to eat to go with it.
I only had a sip of the third glass and then let it sit on the table while I waited for a cheese platter Nelson had ordered for everybody to share. I knew if I drank any more without food in my stomach, I would start to feel the effects of the wine. I knew this. But still, when Nelson called for a toast to celebrate our sales victory, I didn't decline the glass of champagne somebody poured for me. There were three toasts in all, including one for Jenny from the accounts department who announced she was pregnant. After all the clinks of glasses; the self-congratulatory praises and cheers; and the mouthfuls of sweet, bubbly good-cheer, I looked at the crystal flute in front of me and saw it was almost empty. A hot flush immediately came over me and my head began to swirl. I panicked.
My memory of exactly what happened is a little hazy, but there's no way I would say I was "drunk". I've never been drunk in my life. Not ever. I was just a tiny bit tipsy. That's all. If only I had kept my mouth shut and not even mentioned how I felt. With still no sign of the cheese platter, I knew I had to do something to regain full control of my senses. Water was what I needed, but there wasn't any left on the table. I looked around for a waitress, but they were all busy elsewhere. Nelson even noticed my alarm and asked me what was wrong. The words tumbled from my lips before I could stop them: I think I've had too much to drink. He gave me a concerned look but didn't say anything. I explained that all I needed was some water. Still he didn't say anything, but he stood and drew the attention of the barman. I really panicked now and felt like every eye in the room was on Nelson. On me. I wished for the floor to open up and swallow me. The barman rounded the bar and approached our table.
"Yes?" he asked.
"The lady needs a glass of water," Nelson said.
I blushed and gave the barman a sheepish look.
"I think she's had a little too much to drink," Nelson added.
I was mortified. The blush of my face became a flush that burned hotly. I dared not look back again at the barman. My eyes burned and I felt sure they were now completely bloodshot. The barman didn't say another word. Instead, he quietly turned on his heel and returned to the bar. While he was away, I just sat there with my heart pounding furiously in my chest. Nelson appeared to be oblivious to the trouble I sensed he had now gotten me into. Nobody else at the table seemed aware of what was going on and their conversations swirled around me -- a fog of babble. It felt quite surreal.
The barman finally returned, accompanied by two men. They were well dressed in dark suits, their faces smoothly shaved and expressionless. I knew even before they announced themselves they were officers from the Public Slave Office. I pretended everything was normal and desperately hoped somebody at the table would engage me in their conversation. None did. Attention slowly turned to the two men and the conversation around me fell silent.
"That one," the barman said as he pointed to me.
I stared intently at the almost empty champagne glass in front of me and cursed it under my breath.
"Ma'am," one of them said.
I tried to smile and look innocent. The guilt I felt was palpable.
"Ma'am, please stand up," the second officer said.
"Me?"
"Yes. Please stand up."
"Why? I haven't done anything --"
"Ma'am, please stand up. That is an order."
Other conversations at surrounding tables suddenly went quiet. I struggled to me feet.
"See?" I asked after I finally stood straight. My knees felt like they would buckle at any moment. I and gave the two officers an uncertain smile.
"How many drinks have you had?" the other asked.
"Two. I've only had two glasses of wine, officer."
The combination of guilt and dread made my mouth feel dry. The words came out slightly slurred, but still I persisted in trying to sound completely sober.
"Two. That all I had," I babbled.
A few strands of hair suddenly decided at that moment to spring free from the clip on my head. They fell across my left eye and just hung there, partially blocking my vision, which I realized was already slightly blurred.
"We'd like you to accompany us to --"
"It's OK officer. I'm OK, really I am," I said. One of my knees finally collapsed under me and I dropped with a thud back in my seat. More hair dropped over my face.
There was a long pause. My work colleagues began to look nervously away from me -- distancing themselves from me, as if I had become a dangerous liability to them. There were murmurs of disquiet from others in the bar. I just sat there smiling stupidly -- idiotically -- and continued to mumble that I hadn't done anything wrong at all.
