Date: Fri, 23 Jan 2009 03:20:13 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: It's Not Equal At All, Part One

IT'S NOT EQUAL AT ALL!

By Pete Brown   petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

(Readers: after my brief excursion into modern London with "The Movies?
No, Thanks", here's part one of my new story set in that familiar landscape
of a future America, where things are rather different from our own times).

Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories

Part One

Until I got to be a teenager I suppose I never realised we were shit poor,
right at the bottom of the heap.  Well, not quite at the bottom, as we were
at least free and not slaves.  But judging from what I saw on TV I reckon
some of those slaves got treated better than we did - they seemed to have
nice food, live in big, airy slave quarters on their owners' demesnes, and
only worked about twelve hours a day.  Mom and dad, they worked longer and
harder, I reckon, but it never seemed to bring in enough: the kinds of work
inner-city whiteys like them could get meant there was only ever just
enough to pay the rent and the bills and the taxes, and it was only because
mom had a knack of turning even the cheapest food into something nourishing
for all of us that we managed to scrape by.

As I said, though, I didn't realise it when I was a little kid: all the
folks in the row houses where we lived in the inner city were the same, and
some - where the daddy had run off and left - were even worse.  We didn't
have any contact with the rich suburbanites at all, really - we didn't go
to the big out of town malls as we couldn't get there, and none of their
kids were at our school.  There was talk of bussing some of us out to the
'burbs for schooling "for reasons of equality", and I know mom and dad
voted for Mayor Williams as he promised to do that, and they wanted me to
have a good education.  But nothing ever came of it once he was sitting in
City Hall, so like all the kids in the area I went from a crap first school
to a worse middle one.

Mom and dad really did believe in education, though, and they wouldn't let
me watch much TV at night.  I had to read all the classics, and even some
of the new stuff that was considered really rather seditious and which mom
and dad didn't keep out on the bookshelves in case anyone saw it and
reported us to the police.  I didn't understand a lot of it, of course, and
for example I read "Uncle John's Cabin" as an adventure tale of the slave
trying to escape from his owner up to Canada, rather than as a searing
indictment of the system that made that poor guy suffer so just because he
was white.

I was a bright kid, even though I say it myself, and like most of my
buddies I enjoyed sport at school (although the facilities were very bad).
We had some good teachers, too, who tried to make the best of us, and when
I was fourteen one of them took me aside and said "You know, Steve, you
could do well - you work hard, and you're bright.  And you seem to know
more about the world that most of the other kids.  I'm going to ask your
folks to come in, and we can start to think about college for you - it's
never too early to try to plan for that, as there are so few places for
kids like you.  I suppose there's no chance your parents could pay, even a
little?  We've got some years, so a bit of regular saving....."

"No, ma'am.  Absolutely no way."  I felt embarrassed, even though it was
not their fault they were so poor, and I went on "Mom and dad struggle to
pay all the bills as it is.  And I need to get an after-school job as soon
as I can to help out with things, never mind thinking about saving for
college.  But I read in the papers about grants and scholarships and such -
perhaps I could qualify for one of those?"

"Not really, Steve.  There's no point in raising your hopes - all the
endowments that make that sort of thing possible are only at the black
schools.  The very few colleges that accept whiteys like you don't have any
funds from rich alumni, only what the Government gives them...."

"Ma'am, I thought the education system was open to everyone, well, everyone
except slaves, I suppose.  So can't I try for one of the black colleges?"

"Theoretically, yes, Steve.  They're open to all, by law.  But you'd never
get in.  Even if you passed the entrance exam right at the top, you'd fail
the interview - there's no hiding the fact that you're a whitey, is there?
They can give marks at the interview for things like 'compatibility with
other students' and 'ability to reflect well on the school' - and there's
no way that a whitey can possibly score highly on things like that. I'm
sorry to put it so bluntly, but that's the way things are."

"But when we did the Constitution in Civics, there's those wonderful words
about all men being created equal, Ma'am."

"Created equal, maybe, Steve.  But the founding fathers didn't foresee the
terrible problems at the start of the century, didn't know the world
economy would crash, that millions and millions would die from starvation,
even here in the USA, that when the recovery came it would only happen
through the Butler Doctrine.... Didn't you do that in Civics, too?"

"Yes, ma'am.  Butler said we couldn't recover and grow if we persisted in
trying to give everyone a 'fair share'.  So we needed slavery, and a ruling
class, and workers...."

"Quite so, Steve.  So the Constitution really means that all slaves are
treated equally under the law, all our wise politicians and business
leaders are treated equally, and all the workers are treated equally.
Three separate classes, equal amongst themselves, but separate. And since
then, of course, things have progressed.  It's not impossible for a whitey
to become a Mayor, or a Judge, or a manager in a big company - that would
be illegal.  It's just that it's very rare, as folk like to mix with their
own folk - think of this school, here: you wouldn't like to have to sit
next to slave if they were admitted, would you?"

"No, ma'am..."

"Well, in the same way, one of our leaders' kids wouldn't want to sit next
to you in class.  And it works both ways, too - you're very good on the
sports field, but if you had to compete with all those taller, stronger
black kids, you'd always lose. No, it's best that we all stay separate."

"I see, ma'am.  So you reckon there's no chance I can ever go to college?"

"It would take a miracle, Steve.  And, as you know from the bible, the good
lord rewards those who help themselves; he doesn't hand out miracles across
the board!  Think of the parable of the master, the servants, and the
talents: the good servant who worked hard, invested wisely, got rewarded,
just like our leaders do.  The servant at the bottom who did nothing
special lost out - and that, I'm afraid, is what happens to whiteys,
Steve."

She sighed, and gathered up her books.  "So I'm sorry, Steve.  If, as you
say, your folks can't afford to pay, there's not much point in considering
further education for you."

Well, that night, even though he was tired, I insisted in talking to dad
about this.  He was realistic, as he knew we were the poor white trash as
far as society went.  And finally he put his arm around my shoulders and
said "Look, Steve, there are only three ways of getting on in this world
and being rich: You can be left the money - well, that isn't going to
happen to you.  You can earn it, although that isn't going to happen
either, I reckon: you can't get to be one of the leaders or managers these
days without a good education, and we can't afford that.  And you've no
talent for singing or dancing, so you'll never make it a one of those
entertainers the leaders like to go and see as they reckon whiteys have
'rhythm'."

"You said three, dad.  What's the third?"

"You marry it, son.  Find a nigger bitch, get her to take a fancy to you,
get her pregnant, and then her folks either have to let you marry her - and
you're taken care of for the rest of your life.  Or they have to pay you to
go away, so she can be aborted and 'start over'."

"I don't reckon that's likely, either, dad.  There aren't any niggers in
school, and I hardly see any young bitches at all as they're all out in the
'burbs...."

"Look, Steve, this is all too deep.  There's time yet - don't give up!  You
might be lucky and get a good job, one that's reserved for a whitey, one
that slaves are not allowed to do - a low-level policeman, a subway guard,
something like that...."

"I want to do more, dad...."

Dad just shrugged, and went to bed.  And I suppose I ought to have been
really upset about it all, but, you know, that's kind of how life was for
us.  And I'd just discovered girls, and how much better it was to fuck than
to jack off.  In fact, my school work went a bit down hill after that as I
spent a whole lot of time planning my next conquest in the class - what I
might have lost in book learning I certainly made up for by becoming a
first-class cocksman.

Girls are expensive, though, and I could hardly wait to be sixteen so I
could get an after-school job and buy them all those little things they
kept asking for, like a soda or a hamburger, before they'd let me go all
the way with them.  The problem is that there aren't a whole lot of things
a kid like me can do - waiting table, working in a fast food place, all the
after-school jobs like that was reserved for leaders' kids.  And as for
doing yard work, or stuff like that - well, around by us no one really had
a yard.  And if they did, they certainly couldn't afford to pay to have it
tidied.  So mostly I hung around on the street corners in the evenings
shooting the breeze with my buddies and watching the world go by - we were
close to one of the main highways leading out to the 'burbs, so we could
sit there and see the buses and stuff go past, ferrying their passengers
between the nice offices and their equally nice homes.

That same teacher who had spoken to me two years before kept an interest in
me, though.  And occasionally she'd take me to one side, shake her head as
if in sorrow, and tell me "Steve, it's hard, I know.  But please don't give
up.  You're one of the best here, and you could make something of
yourself.... Don't throw it all away by just sitting there in class, doing
nothing.  And Coach tells me you don't even bother going to the swimming
team or track and field sessions now...."

"With respect, ma'am, what's the point?  I'm never going to get an
education, and no education means a dead-end job like my dad's, if I'm
lucky, that is: more and more of that kind of stuff is being opened up to
slaves.  And as for the swimming and sport - well, I enjoy it, but there's
no point in trying for a place in the team as all that competition is a
lost cause: when was the last time anyone but nigger won anything on the
track?  They're bigger and stronger than we are, they have the coaches, the
best training facilities...."

"Oh, Steve, I hate to see you throwing your life away!  It isn't all over
at sixteen.  There is hope, something may turn up."

"With respect, ma'am, you sound like that Mr Micawber in one of dad's
books.... Nothing is ever going to turn up for me."

"Well, young man, I can tell you one thing that may happen!  From the staff
room we see more than you might think, and I know of your reputation with
the girls.  Do be careful, Steve - if you get one of them pregnant, that
will be an end to anything: a baby and a wife to look after.  Do take
proper precautions...."

"Precautions?  That tax they put on condoms last year finished me off, I
can tell you!  They said it was to make them prohibitively expensive, so
that young people would stop buying them and so stop having sex.  Well that
was typical leaders' bullshit, ma'am - it certainly stopped me buying
them.... But I'm sixteen, a man, and there's no way I'm going to stop
screwing...."  I realised I'd gone too far, and muttered "Sorry, ma'am, I
didn't mean to swear..."

"It's all right, Steve.  In the old days, when they used to teach science
even to working class boys like you, you'd have learned that it's just your
hormones raging that makes you fly off the handle like that.  But look -
there is a way perhaps I can help you.  The sister of the preacher at my
church runs an exclusive country club out in Nutwood, and she's told him to
look out for any likely boys who would like to work Saturday evenings when
they have their big dinners.  She says they're not prejudiced, and they'll
take white boys provided they're relatively easy on the eye, as much as a
whitey can be, of course.  So I think you would qualify.... It's only
drudge work, parking the vehicles, things like that - slave's work, really,
but they don't want to buy any more for a once-a-week requirement."

"Thank you, ma'am.... But I'm not going to do slave work...."

"They pay fifty new cents an hour, Steve.  So for a typical Saturday night
you'd get three new dollars."

Wow!  When I thought how much dad and mom earned for their twelve-hour
days, that was really good.

"Well, I suppose....."

"Mind you, you'll have to pay your own way out and back to Nutwood.  And I
expect there's a uniform - those clubs like all their staff to be smart.
And you've got to be accepted, of course - do you want me to arrange an
interview?"

"Yes, please, ma'am."

Well it took about a week, and I'd almost forgotten about it, until the
teacher saw me at lunchtime and told me to get out to the Nutwood Club
after school.  That only left the problem of the bus fare - it's a lot, of
course, as they don't want us inner-city folk cluttering up their nice
smart 'burbs by travelling out there.  It would be a couple of hours to
walk, I reckoned, and I knew that the chance of a tough-looking whitey like
me being able to hitch a ride were zero.  The teacher saw me looking
worried though, and finally after we'd talked said "Look, Steve, I think
you're worth saving, if I can.  So I'll lend you the bus fare as there's no
time to walk there after school, and I don't want you missing an afternoon.
But you must pay me back after your first weekend, is that understood?"

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am."

"And Steve - dress smartly!  You need to make a good impression!"

I said I would, but it wasn't going to be easy.  I only had two pairs of
jeans, five T shirts and a couple of hoodies - I mean, living where we did,
with money so tight, I neither needed nor could afford anything else.

On the day itself, though, I rushed home after school and put clean jeans
and my loosest T on (we like out Ts tight, to show off our muscles, but all
the black kids you see on TV always have baggy ones, so I thought I'd
better do my best).  Then I went out to the bus stop, but two buses went
past without stopping, even though I stuck my hand right out as I'd seen
people do on TV. An old guy sat there on a bench by the stop, in the
sunshine, watching me, then finally said "They aren't ever going to stop
for you, son!  No one hereabouts gets a bus out, so they think you're
trying to lure them into stopping so a gang can leap out and rob them.  You
need to cross over, go into the city - the buses do stop there as they'll
think you're a worker - and come out again."

Well I did as suggested, and, sure enough, the bus did stop.  But then
there was a problem as it did not take cash - you needed one of the special
travel cards (which is another way of stopping us poor folk from moving
around too much).  But fortunately a rich-looking lady, irritated at the
delay, told the driver to move on and she swiped her card for me.  And then
there was another problem, and the driver brought the bus to a halt to
stride down the aisle to me.  "Boy, don't you know anything?  This part of
the bus is reserved.  Whiteys must sit in the last three rows!"

Well how the fuck was I to know that?  We didn't travel.  And what
difference did it make anyway, as the seats all looked the same.  I hated
it, though, as I don't like to be made out to be stupid, and it took a long
time for my blushes to subside.

When I eventually did get to Nutwood, I went to walk up the drive to the
imposing looking white stucco building, but the slave who opened and closed
the gate would not let me through.  "I'm sorry, sir", he told me (it was
nice to be called "sir" after all that trouble on the bus), "But this
entrance is reserved for members, and I don't think I've seen you before,
sir, so perhaps you're not a member?  With respect, sir, white folk calling
at the Club are usually tradespeople, or workmen - and they should use the
rear entrance."

"Is that far?"

"Exactly opposite to us here, sir, on the other side of the Club house.  It
only takes about 30 minutes to walk around, sir."

"Oh, come on.... I'm going to be late.... Just this once, let me through,
there's no-one around."

The slave looked at me, and said "Hey, buddy, I'm really sorry. But I've
got my orders.  And if anyone saw me letting you in, I'd be punished."

"Oh, come on, they can't fire you, after all, or cut your pay...."

"Do you know anything about slaves, buddy?"

I shook my head and muttered "not much".

"Well if you did, you wouldn't ask a slave to disobey his owner's orders -
at this place they use the leather strop for stuff like that.  Twenty
strokes across the naked ass.  Most of us have got it once, but we never
get it twice!"

I hadn't thought about it at all, really, I suppose, so I kind of shrugged,
and set off on the long walk around to the back - then I realised I was
going to be late, so stepped up my pace to a jog.

When I finally did get in I realised that jogging had been pointless - they
kept me waiting for over an hour, and when I started to complain, the
receptionist simply said "Well, boy, it's up to you.  We've got plenty of
whiteys who'd be glad of the chance to earn a few extra new bucks here.  So
if you're tired of waiting, just go!"

Well I did need the money, so I just sat there although I did feel pretty
pissed off at the way they were treating me, and when a slave finally came
to lead me through the maze of corridors in the "service" part of the Club,
I wasn't in the best of tempers.

He led me into the manager's office, and she was sitting behind her desk,
reading.  There was no chair or anything, so I stood there in front of her,
and she ignored me.  The slave had gone and stood against the wall with his
hands clasped behind his back and his head down, which I supposed was what
slaves were meant to do. I stood there and then I crossed my arms as I was
getting a bit pissed off, then uncrossed them and let them hang at my side,
my fists clenching and unclenching.  Finally, I said "Ma'am....."

"Be quiet, boy.  I'm doing some important reading.  I'll get to you when
I'm ready."

I ought to have just turned and walked out, but after coming all this way,
I decided I might as well wait.  Finally the woman looked up, found another
paper, scanned down it, and asked "So you're Steven Masters?"

"Yes, ma'am, Steve...."

"...You come well recommended by the Church.  So you're properly god
fearing?"

I think the whole ju-ju in the sky think is a load of utter rubbish, of
course, but I did need the job. So I replied "Yes, ma'am.", trying to make
it sound sincere.

"The job is to be here Saturday, from late afternoon. Every Saturday,
without fail.  Any failure to turn up, and you will be dismissed.  Saturday
is the day of our weekly social, for members and their families, and it is
essential we are fully staffed so they suffer no inconvenience.  So do you
want the job?"

"Yes, ma'am.  But what do I do?"

"You help the other men we employ at this time to park the vehicles.  And
then to return them to the porte-cochere when the member is ready to
leave."

"And what time is that, ma'am... When do I get home?"

"At whatever time the last member chooses to leave, of course!  The Club
runs for its members, not for the convenience of the servants!  But we pay
you the full 50 cents per hour for each completed full hour."

"So if the last member leaves at, say, forty minutes after the hour, I get
paid a full hour?"

"No, of course not!  You don't get paid those forty minutes at all."

"The last bus leaves at midnight - can I leave to catch it?"

"Of course not!  Not if there are still members' vehicles to be brought
around!"

"But I can't then get home...."

"Boy, that is no concern of the Club.  You want to work here, you make your
own travel arrangements.  Now, if you don't want the job, just say...."

It was outrageous, really.  Only fifty new cents an hour.  And I'd always
end up doing a lot of unpaid time, as far as I could see.  And then I'd
probably not be able to get home.  But I did want to earn, so I said "No,
please, ma'am, can I start next Saturday?"

She looked at me, her eyes raking me up and down.  "There's one more thing
- you seem a well set-up boy, but you've got to look good in the Club
uniform."  She looked across at the slave, and snapped "Fetch me one of the
valet's uniforms, and be quick about it."

The man fled - he was clearly terrified of her - and she returned to her
papers as I was left to stand again in front of her desk.

When the slave returned he handed me a crisp white short-sleeved shirt, and
a pair of white cotton slacks.  The woman looked up and snapped at me "What
are you waiting for?  I need to see how you look in the Club uniform."

I looked around, and there was no obvious place to change.  She saw me
doing this, and sounding very irritated, said "For goodness sake!  Just
change there, where you are.  The smell of your sweat is offensive enough
already, so it can hardly get any worse if you take that T-shirt and your
jeans off!"

I couldn't believe it!  She surely didn't want me to strip off in front of
her!  I mean, I know that's what slaves have to do if they're ordered to,
but not a free man, like me.  Very hesitantly I muttered "Please, ma'am,
I'll just go along to the men's room....."

"Oh, of course, I'd forgotten.  I usually vet the new slaves and of course
they are all stripped right here.  But you're a free man.... But I'm in a
hurry."  She looked at the slave and continued "You!  Stand in front of the
master, to shield him from my gaze whilst he changes."

The man came over and stood there in front of her, looking at me, and I
suppose I had no choice but to strip off. Although I didn't like the way he
looked at me as I undressed, I suppose it was no worse than changing in
front of other men at school.  When I'd done, he stepped to one side as I
stood there, and the woman looked me over again.

"You'll do.  Be here at three Saturday.  If you're late even by a minute,
we'll only pay you from four.  Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You can go now.", and, to the slave, she added "Show him out."

And that was that.  I picked up my clothes and followed the slave.  Once we
were in the corridor, he turned to me and smiled.  "You were lucky!  She
must have liked what she saw - well, I certainly did.  Or perhaps she
thinks you'll soon be enslaved, so she has a kind of preview...."

"No fucking way!  I'm a free man, and I'm going to stay that way....."

The slave shrugged.  "That's what I thought, until I fell behind with the
alimony and my bitch of a wife got the Court to enslave me to give her a
lump sum instead.  And one of the other guys here failed to pay his
taxes....  Anyway, you said there was a problem with the bus?"

"Aren't you supposed to call me 'sir'?"

"...that there's a problem with the bus, sir?"  He sounded the last word
with such heavy irony that I almost wished there was some way I could
report him for insolence.  I mean, us free men need to keep a proper
distance between us and the slaves, don't we?

"Yes, there is a problem, boy".  It was now me who was laying it on, as I
really emphasised the "boy" - the slave was a good ten years older than me,
but all slaves can be addressed as that, as you know.  I continued "My last
bus leaves at midnight, and it sounds as if things go on a lot later."

"Yes, sir.  If there's heavy gambling going on, some of the members send
their families home and have their carriages return to pick them up later -
that double trip is really hard on the ponies!  Some nights they don't
finally leave until after four - just time to catch a few hours sleep
before they head off to church and confess to the sin of gambling, or
drinking!  Still, you should worry - by that time there's only a few left
so there's not a lot of running to and from the holding yard to fetch the
carriages around.  And you get paid for it!"

"I've still got nowhere to sleep."

"You'd always be welcome in the slave quarters, sir!  A lot of us
appreciate a young man like you, sir.  Our beds are narrow, and hard, but
you could take your pick, and we'd all gladly share a bed with you,
sir..... Even though there might not be a lot of sleeping....."

"I ought to report you and have you whipped!  I'm not gay, and how dare you
suggest it!"

"I'm sorry, sir.  I didn't mean to offend.  But some of the other valets,
sir.... Well, they say they need sex, and they're all terrified of getting
their women in the family way as they couldn't afford the upkeep of a
child, and the only way to pay would be through enslavement.... So they
look forward to Saturday nights in the slave quarters here, sir.  As I
said, you're a free man, and especially a handsome young free man like you,
sir, well you could have your pick - any of us would be happy to service
you, sir...  It would make a nice change from most of the fat old members
here."

We'd almost reached the rear entrance, and that prevented me from telling
him how disgusting I thought that was.  And instead I asked him to show me
somewhere to change back into my jeans, as I didn't want to risk spoiling
the uniform on the journey home.

He watched me again as I stripped off and got dressed, and having been
uncomfortable with it before, I was now doubly so, knowing that he was
looking at my body sexually.

End Of Part One