One Step Behind You

By: Randall Austin
(© 2011 by the author)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

Chapter 1

In the last quarter of my senior year at St. James Private School for Boys, I received notice that I had been awarded a scholarship to Gilman College in Pennsylvania. My friends seemed to be as happy for me as I was for myself, since Gilman College was recognized as having one of the finest history departments in the country. History was my obsession, and it was my goal in life to specialize in one of the relatively smallest seriously researched areas in American history, that of the American West prior to the 19th century.

The summer after graduation Brother Michael, a faculty member at St. James Private School, had a party for me and my circle of friends. While it was not really a party just for me, I was the main focus of the gathering, because everyone was especially happy that a match that seemed so right, Gilman College and me, had been made. Indeed, my goal for college had even been the subject of the local community newspaper. While everyone who attended St. James Private School was gifted, and all of my class mates and friends had bright careers ahead of them, Brother Michael wanted, he said, to reward me for four years of extraordinary hard work.

We had a great time that evening. All of my closest friends were there. Tony Porto, Jill MacDonald, Perry Thompson, Ben Cordesman, and Eric Valiotis, and Brother Michael himself, my sophomore biology teacher, had become one of my best friends. We had a wondrous platonic relationship. He would spend hours with me after class, listening to me express my frustrations with life and school, and always he was patient. At the end of every session his words of wisdom were a genuine help to me as I struggled through life as a teenager. Brother Michael was slender and handsome, and somewhere through the years I developed a crush on him. He seemed to me to be what a perfect lover should be; wise, patient, understanding, handsome, and sexy (though he was, I believed, too spiritual to be aware of such earthly matters as sexuality).

Two months after my graduation party, in August, just three weeks before I was to enter Gilman College, I was driving my friends Perry and Ben home from a birthday party of a mutual friend. We all had had a little bit to drink. I was driving down Koerner Lane, a road that twisted as it winded downhill from Canyon Heights, where the party was held. Just as I had negotiated the steepest curve on the road I noticed a large fallen branch in the road. Deciding and acting in haste I swerved sharply to avoid the branch, causing my car to roll over. In the crash Ben Cordesman was seriously injured. He was paralyzed in both legs and his left arm.

In the hearing that followed I was found guilty of the crime of driving while under the influence of intoxicating beverages, of the crime of reckless driving, both misdemeanors, and of the crime of reckless endangerment, which is a felony. In addition Ben's family sued me and won the personal suit against me, and was awarded damages of $2,000,000. The judge pronounced, "William Garneau, since you have forever and irrevocably changed the course of Ben Cordesman's future, it is justice that by sentencing you to a term of life enslavement, the course of your life, thus, shall also be forever and irrevocably changed." He went on to answer my attorney's consideration of the fact that my promising gifts as a historian would be lost to the world by addressing me; "Your love of history will serve you well as a slave. Whether you are owned in the course of your life by a corporation or a private individual, seek to know the history of the organization or person you serve. Learn of them by looking at their past to see how you can best offer them service as a slave."

The judge's pronouncements and choice of words were met with much criticism, not only locally, but also statewide. But in the end his ruling was law and I was sentenced to life enslavement. I was held in the county jail for four days before I was to be shipped out to Pittsburgh where I would be spending eight weeks in training at the Pennsylvania State Slave 'Commitment to Obedience' Training Center. While I was in prison, all of my friends came to see me, and as I sat with each one of them, I was filled with utter shame. Shame at all that was unspoken. Tony, Jill, Perry, and Eric all came to support me, and told me how tragic and unfair the events were. And yet as they offered me words of comfort, I could see that my neon orange prison jump suit intimidated them. From each of them I got a sense that they were happy to be on the other side of the bars. I could sense that they were already looking at me as someone who was no longer quite the same person, no longer the same kind of friend, no longer at all their equal. I sensed I was no longer a someone to them, rather more of a something.

And Perry, during his visit, put into words something I knew each one of my other friends had thought about, but had too much social skill to actually verbalize to my face, "To think you no longer can be who you are, or do the things that you love to do, all those things that you loved to do and did so well. To think that you, Billy Garneau, now have to do for the rest of your life whatever someone who has the money to afford you tells you to do!"

Brother Michael was away on retreat with the new senior class during my trial and brief jail term, but he sent me a note that inspired me, and which I hung on my cell wall, "Billy, Whatever anyone may say about you cannot alter the fact of who you are! You were great and gifted. You still are great and gifted. And that shall not change, no matter what may befall you." When I read his note I wept.

When my four days in the county jail were up, two guards entered my cell and chained my arms to a waist chain, and my legs were hobbled together with a short chain that allowed me to take only mincing steps. As they led me out of my cell they said, "Okay Billy, you're outta here. You're free at last!", and they laughed the way crude people laugh. As they led me to the van that would transport me to the Pennsylvania State Slave 'Commitment to Obedience' Training Center one of them said, "When you're finished with slave training, Billy, you won't need any more chains to keep you in line. They do a real good job down in Pittsburgh of teaching you slave boys to obey without being chained."

Slave training in Pennsylvania, as I had been assured, was not like slave training in the South or Mid-West. No trainers stood around with whips making us do meaningless tasks round the clock. Rather, training consisted of an endless series of classes, chiefly civics classes. The classes were geared to slaves, to instill within us; a sense of how important we were in the new economy; how all citizens, slave and free, have a duty; the definition of slavery in our enlightened age; how by giving of ourselves totally to our owners, we are giving to all of society; how we are part of a new world order where slaves' status is respected; etc.. It was also full of psychological and sociological classes, some of which taught us how slaves can find happiness and fulfillment; some explained bonding trends in slave households; and some demonstrated our value to our owners in very real everyday terms. All of the classes were designed to make us feel good about ourselves, to give us a sense of self-respect, and fill us with hope.

But I was no fool. I knew all about the tactics employed by the state; give slaves self-esteem through official government pronouncements, and 90% of slaves lose their rebellious streak. Such tactics were in the literature.

Given all that, I was quite surprised when the 'Commitment to Obedience' curriculum finally did include some very graphic sessions of the grimmer aspects of slavery, at least for slaves. One class fully apprised us of owners' rights regarding, and authority over, slaves (almost total); one demonstrated the latest techniques and tools used in slave control (state of the art torture); and another attempted to explain to us why the best course of action for any slave was always direct obedience (castration, after all, is an option). Such scare tactics mixed in with the sweet talk made all of us in the class just want to sit attentively and listen and not make any waves.

But overall, it actually was a stress reducing eight weeks for me. I was stressed out to my limit on going into the training session, but being allowed to bond with other human beings, other new slaves, forming little groups, breaking off for discussion groups, and all monitored by professional trainers who acted as if we really were important beings, had a calming effect. Of course the fact that my life had changed forever was before me every day as well; when we had to eat what we were given and only as much as we were given; when we all had to take assembly line showers; when we had to sleep in rows and rows of cots packed closely next to each other; when we could see security cameras present everywhere; and when guards were present in the corners of every room we entered.

When the 'Commitment to Obedience' course was over, I was shipped back to my hometown county slave authority, and it was in charge of putting me up for sale. The Clarion County Slave Depository had a low-key, somewhat laid-back, approach to moving inventory. They used no flashy advertisements in the Sunday papers. No snappy radio spots loudly announcing "This just in!", "Freshly tamed, prime, workboy", "A slave you don't have to be embarrassed to have your guests see." The Slave Depository simply took phone calls from prospective buyers, and the highly trained account reps on the phone were quite successful in setting up appointments and getting callers to come down to the showroom to examine the wares.

Slaves on sale were held in very small cells, more like pens, during their stay at the Clarion County Slave Depository. They were brought out for display if it was felt that a particular slave would interest a prospective buyer. At the depository, for business hours, we were bathed, shaved of our pubic and pit hair. The hair on our heads was kept as long as we had it, so anyone who purchased us had the option of any hairstyle for us which they wanted. Our hair was washed and slicked back for display purposes. We were kept naked except for a cloth of cotton material, about the size of a small bath towel, which was cinched about our waist and was held in place with a clip. If a prospective buyer was interested enough in us after seeing our mug shot and reading our statistics, history, psychological profile, and market evaluation reports, we were then brought out for a physical inspection. If the prospect was still interested, then we were escorted to a private room where the buyer could have our waist cloth removed, examine all of our other parts, and have us do anything they wanted to see us do; run in place, do jumping jacks, push ups, etc...

The first time I was taken into a backroom at the request of a prospect was frightening. The prospect was a middle aged, loud mouthed, self-important, small business man, who had a younger woman with him who he was doubtless trying to impress with his having the means to purchase a slave. We were escorted into an examination room with a Clarion County Slave Control guard, and the man told me to remove my cloth. I did so, and he ran his hands across my chest, abdomen, and down one of my legs. He told his girl friend to do the same, "You can get to know a slave by their feel." She did so and giggled. He asked me if I could haul bricks. I told him I was a scholar, that I had never labored before. He said to the guard, who had no interest in his comment, in an angry voice, "Then what in the hell are you selling him for? He's worthless!" He walked out of the room in a huff, his girlfriend following. The guard told me to put my waistcloth back on and he took me back to my pen.

That single episode most dramatically illustrated to me how my life had changed. I was no longer, ever again, going to be treated like a young man worthy of respect, a young man on the verge of a most promising career. Even though I came from a middle class background, my academic record made me accustomed to being treated as a special person. I came to feel entitled to certain courtesies, certain privileges. From now on I could expect to be treated like trash that had to do exactly whatever I was told to do.

The stay at the depository was boring. All one could do was lie or sit on your cot (which almost filled the entire space of each pen), chat with the slaves in the pens nearest you, and read whatever books and magazines you gathered for yourself from the Depository's little collection.

The Depository Slave Control guards let us out of our pens every couple of hours for a little exercise and potty break. If we were called out for display they would check to make certain we weren't stinking and needed another bath, recombed our hair, made certain our waist cloth was straight, and we were walking bright and alert as we were taught at our 'Commitment to Obedience' training.

During the five days I was up for sale at the depository I was called out for display about six times a day. I remember, after my third day, while I was being examined by a Mr. Enar Falkenberg and his son, Lang, that I had hoped they would buy me because they seemed to be as good as it gets. While there was nothing really special about Mr. Falkenberg, except that his son was cute, there was nothing about the two of them that repulsed me. So I was somewhat pleased a few days later when I heard that not only was I being called out for another examination by them, but that my family had been summoned to the depository.

In Pennsylvania it was preferred custom to have the slave's family, or at least one representative of the family, present at the point of sale. Dad was aware of the custom, and the Depository had informed him they would be calling him when a sale looked imminent.

In the chief sales display room there would typically be about eight groups of people scattered about examining slaves at a given time. Occasionally one entire group of prospective buyers would exit with the slave and a guard to a private examination room, return, haggle over the price, and either they would exit to finalize the sale, or have another slave fetched for display.

When the guard brought me into the sales room, I immediately spotted the Falkenberg's (they were tall). Lang's blond hair stood out, and he carried a large rectangular case in his hand that looked like it held tennis rackets. And standing with them was my dad, my sister Ellen, 14, and my brothers Timothy, 16, and Chad, 22. And for reasons completely unknown to me at first, there were my friends Tony, Jill, Perry, and Eric, as well. And most amazing of all, Brother Michael was also present. And along with all of them was a sales clerk from the Clarion County Slave Depository.

I walked over and hugged all of them. When I hugged Brother Michael I shuddered, and felt as though I had been rescued. Everyone smiled as if they were happy to see me. My father explained, "Billy, we wanted to make this a special occasion, so I phoned your friends when I found out yesterday that Mr. Falkenberg was close to making a decision to purchase you, and they all wanted to be here for you at this special time." I was filled with conflicting emotions because I needed friends and was lonely, but even more I would have preferred that my family and friends not be with me at such a moment. But for some strange reason I blurted out, "Gosh, that's great Dad!" As though everything was just super fabulous and totally cool.

The sales clerk asked Mr. Falkenberg one more time if he did indeed wish to purchase me. When Mr. Falkenberg said he did, the clerk asked him what kind of hairstyle he would like me to have. Mr. Falkenberg said he wanted my hair slightly shorter on the sides, and combed in a typical college prep style. The clerk took out a catalogue and asked Mr. Falkenberg to select a collar style. Mr. Falkenberg and Lang looked over the selections, exchanged comments, and quickly came to a decision. They pointed out their selection in the catalogue for the clerk. The clerk took the catalogue, and said, "Good choice. And are you still going with the 40-D GPS band?" Mr. Falkenberg nodded 'yes'. As the clerk started to lead me away he told Mr. Falkenberg that the bursar would be in shortly with the sales papers and agreements that needed to be signed, and by the time everything was signed I would be ready to get collared. As the clerk and I walked out I heard my family and friends resume chatting quietly among themselves, as people do at funerals.

The sales clerk, in his late twenties, struck me as the first person I had so far met who dealt with slaves on a regular basis who was not into any kind of power trip over slaves, who gave off no sense of enjoying lording it over slaves. His black hair, with its gelled curls, seemed to be his pride, joy, and chief obsession. He led me to the bathing area and had me sit up on a tall stool. Shortly afterwards a stylist with the Depository came and cut my hair as Mr. Falkenberg ordered. When he was finished he instructed the clerk on how to comb my hair, and told him to call him back if he needed help. The clerk said, "I think I should be able to handle that." The clerk then ordered me to go to the sink and reshave my face, pits, and private area. While I shaved he chatted with another clerk. When I was finished shaving he shouted at me to hop into the shower and wash up all over.

When I got out of the shower he handed me a towel and I dried myself off. He had me raise my arms, applied antiperspirant to my pits, and then had me sit back down on the stool. He then applied way too much gel to my hair, and proceeded to comb it as instructed. He gave me a clean white waistcloth, which I wrapped around my waist and fastened with a clip. He straightened it out, and told me to follow him. As he led me away I saw myself in the mirror, and I looked like a way too scrubbed up nerdy schoolboy. I was embarrassed. He led me back to the corner of the sales room where my family and friends and new owner were standing.

They all looked at me with beaming smiles, as my dad said, "Ah, here he is, our man of the hour!" Tony said, "Look at you! You look fabulous, Billy!" Jill said, "You haven't lost one ounce of your charm, Billy!" Why they all felt they had to compliment me I couldn't understand. Perry said, "Man, you're going to do great!", and Eric slapped me on the back and said, "Killer dude! You're a Killer!" Their forced praise only served to bring my shame to the fore.

An official from the Clarion County Slave Depository had joined the group and asked who would be escorting the Falkenberg's into the anteroom for the collaring. Everyone raised their hands and the official looked quite surprised, and then he smiled, "Really? Well, that's fine. Is everyone Okay with that? Mr. Falkenberg?" Mr. Falkenberg nodded his approval. Chad asked dad why there would be any need to question that. The official, overhearing Chad's question, answered; "The collaring has, by tradition, turned into a semi-official ceremony where the slave and the owner share commitments. It is recorded, and is recognized legal documentation of both party's commitments. It often takes on rather intensely personal turns, but if Mr. Falkenberg has no problem with all of you being present, then that is perfectly ok."

The official looked at everyone present (except me) to see if anyone wanted to change their minds. Still, he felt a need to ask my dad, "Mr. Garneau, are you Okay with your daughter being present?" Dad answered, "Absolutely!" Clearly the official knew something about things that go on in the collaring room that my dad did not. I was getting nervous. Finally satisfied, the official asked everyone to follow him into the anteroom. The clerk walked up beside me and nodded to me. We followed everyone else in. The clerk and I were the last to enter the collaring room.

To be continued...

Posted: 03/18/11