(This is a fantasy set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is common-place for serious crime, unredeemed debt, or voluntary self-indenture. Eighteen years of age is the minimum for anyone in this world to be enslaved or be involved in slave business operations. In the real world, however, slavery and sexual assault are NEVER acceptable under any circumstances.)
Being raised in upstate New York, I had very little experience with slavery until I went to college. High School Social Studies included a brief discussion of the 34th Amendment to the Constitution and the legal consequences of that amendment. In the North and West of the United States, however, slavery was rare in comparison to the South. I don't know whether this was due to differences in culture or climate—all I can tell you is the result. Once in a while, you heard about a celebrity who owned one or more "extraordinary talent" slaves, former citizens who were valued for their abilities (cosmetologist, business consultant, accountant, and so on) rather than their bodies. "Talents" were usually clothed, so fan magazines didn't have to worry about showing any nudity. I think Hollywood publicists avoided any public depiction of slavery so that Northern fans wouldn't complain about shocking their children.
Some Northern states had enacted their own slave codes, and in rare cases enslavement might be added to a long criminal sentence as a sort of frosting on the cake. With the abolition of capital punishment, the most serious crimes were now punishable by prolonged incarceration
and enslavement
, but such people were usually kept in maximum confinement, invisible to the public but reportedly exploited by other, free prisoners. One time on a family trip through Indiana, I saw a chain gang of enslaved criminals picking up trash along the Interstate, but that was it.
Unlike the race-based hereditary slavery before the Civil War, this new version wasn't even much of a political issue—most people believed that those who had lost their rights deserved their fate because they had committed serious crimes or voluntarily pledged themselves for debt. With modern techniques of chipping and tracking the human body, it was almost impossible for a slave to escape anyway, although a few liberal places such as San Francisco declared themselves sanctuary cities. Few people ever had to pledge their freedom as collateral for loans in the north. The well-endowed private colleges, and especially the women's colleges like the one I attended, simply asked all applicants NOT to pledge themselves for college loans—instead, the schools themselves provided scholarships and low-interest loans, which was the only way I could afford to attend.
Given my current pre-occupation with the topic, I now find it odd that I barely thought about slavery while I was growing up. I was too focused on just surviving socially, trying to have any kind of friendships without thinking about extreme relationships like slavery. My name's Shirley Thompson, by the way—and let's skip the dumb jokes about the name "Shirley" because I've heard them all.
Anyway, the high school version of Shirley was a mess—"birth control" glasses, too much weight, acne, stringy hair, the whole gamut of teen self-image problems, combined with a love of reading that made me bust every grading curve in school. What do you expect when your parents are both teachers themselves? I was so unpopular I couldn't have even been queen of the chess club. My senior year, however, I finally got serious about diet and exercise, and my astigmatism miraculously abated so that I could wear much thinner, more stylish glasses. I couldn't drive without them, but could manage to find the bathroom anyway. Having lost fat and tightened my abs, for the first time people could see my rather prominent (C-cup on a 5 foot six inch body) breasts. But I finished high school as a virgin with virtually no social experience.
By the time I arrived at my new school (I'm not going to name it because I don't want to embarrass my profs—let's just say a woman's college outside Boston that produced two secretaries of state) as an 18-year-old freshman, I thought that my appearance was at least presentable, although psychologically I still lacked self-confidence and assertiveness. My new roommate made up for any such deficiencies.
Pam Foster was everything I'm not—blond haired, blue eyed, beautiful face, perfect clothes and makeup on a svelte 5 foot 10 inch body, and enough personality to make three of me. Whereas I was the mousy brunette, 5 foot 6 (on a good day) who tried to disappear into the woodwork, she was the star of every group and the center of every event. Pam was instantly best friends with almost everyone she encountered but didn't hesitate to tell the few exceptions to that rule, the arrogant or nasty ones, to get the F___ out of her way. (At times like that, her Texas twang emerged strongly, but the rest of the time she had a much more cultured, Midwest/accent-less diction.)
Please don't misunderstand me—Pam's not vain or even obnoxious except when she intends to be, and the target of her ire usually deserves it. She's actually very kind and (to me at least) generous. Once she realized that I was a poor, scholarship kid, she never flaunted her family's money in any way, although at least three times during freshman year she paid for an outfit that I longed to own but couldn't afford. That was just part of the service she offered, helping me develop a style to show off my new body while pushing me to socialize.
No, Pam wasn't the mean, judgmental girl lording it over us peasants—but she was manipulative in an older sister, I-know-what's-best-for-you kind of way. She quickly realized that I was an introvert who avoided the spotlight, and tried to draw me out of my shell. Initially, all we had in common was our room and our brains (she had to be "wicked schmart" to get into this place; I still didn't believe I'd made it), although she took charge of my life as well as her own. We studied hard most of the time, but at least one night a week she dragged me off to some mixer or other social event. There are more than 60 colleges in the Boston area, so there was always something going on, and she soon knew all the organizers. She attracted an amazing number of men and boys (a distinction she privately insisted upon) and, while being kind to all of them, managed to funnel some of her cast-off males my way. With her full connivance, I lost my virginity to one of the nicer "boys" at Halloween; I was still too tongue-tied to deal with a really masculine guy.
*****
Time to get back to the subject—slavery. One night in November, Pam got really hammered drinking in a way I'd never seen her before. Fortunately, our escorts were gentlemen who helped me get her back on campus. I made sure she drank a lot of water, after which I placed a waste basket next to her bed and went to sleep myself. By the sounds of it, my roommate not only used the waste basket but "worshipped the porcelain goddess" several times in the night. Thank heavens she cleaned up after herself and opened a few windows—November air in Massachusetts is cold, but at least it dissipated the smell.
When she finally resumed consciousness, I pushed yogurt and more water on her until she could function. She brushed her teeth, gargled, and then looked at me, seriously, to thank me for taking care of her the previous night. I tried gently to remonstrate with her about getting so drunk.
"Don't worry," she replied, "I don't intend to do that ever again. Back home in Houston, a woman who gets that drunk is likely to wake up as part of the permanent inventory."
I looked blank. She almost snapped, as if her meaning were obvious, "you know, the permanent inventory at a slave market."
"Oh." I started, then thought for a minute. "Is there a temporary inventory?"
"Of course, silly." Pam replied, as if it was obvious. "Permanent inventory are the slaves and indentured servants on sale, temporary inventory are people getting graded, like you were."
"Me? I've never been graded—never even seen a slave market. They're just not common around here, and anyway I'm too timid." I tried not to sound judgemental.
"I forgot," she admitted. "So, you've never been graded? That means you don't have an ID number?" I was shocked when she turned her lower lip inside out to show me a 9-digit number tattooed there, but then she flipped her lip back up and continued, "And I'll bet you've never practiced slave positions, right?"
