Confessions of the Fox

by Jordy Rosenberg

  He led Jack through the gate of the furthest cell—this one had a chair in it, facing out towards the hallway, as well as a chamber pot—and unlock’d Jack’s wrists from the handcuffs. Without warning, he ripped Jack’s cloak off, then roughly undid the Button to his trousers and pull’d them down. How far will this Stripping go? Jack’s legs quivered. He felt himself release a bit of Urine down his thigh.

  “Piss!” The centinel jumped back as Jack sank down into the chair with fright.

  Tho’ at least—faced with the stream of urine—the centinel had halted Jack’s undressing. Now he mov’d around to the back of the chair and, holding Jack’s wrists fast in one palm, he resecured the handcuffs, then clicked the Padlock through the Chain and wrapp’d the Chain around the chair leg.

  And left, taking Jack’s cloak and trousers with him.

  * * *

  —

  The Piss grew colder against Jack’s thighs.

  The sepulchral hallway was choked with dusk. Jack made out a row of tarnished steel Hooks for keys and a number of scuttering mice and rats. Wind beat across the barred windows at the upper edge of the cell Wall, pouring a cold stream of Gloam into the interior.

  He was now wearing only his understocking, thin smish, and Boots. His toes, poking through the sodden brown-topped Marlboroughs, pinkened in the bitter Air. His thighs vibrated with some combination of cold and fear.

  As Jack’s eyes adjust’d to the Dark he became aware that there was someone in the hold. Not the centinel. Someone else, just beyond the bars of the cell, facing Jack.

  Either the man had been there the entire time, or he had enter’d soundlessly. He was sneering. His teeth shone silver-white in the Gloom.

  “Nippy.”

  The man drew closer—handcuffs clanging in his fist—materializing from the patch of shadow. He wore a heavy velvet cloak with leather Boots laced high. A triangle hat was tipped low over a bald skull. He rested a walking stick with a silver Knob against the bars and lit a sulfur stick, holding it apparitionally under his chin. In the quivering light, his eyes shone emerald green. He turned the rose-gold pocketwatch in his hand. Producing a key from his pocket with the other, he clank’d the lock open. Stepped through.

  A long pause. The slap of the watch rotating in his large palm.

  “In London, commodities transit through many owners. The flow of commerce is a thing of beauty that can have no restriction by law or custom, else it sickens and dies.”

  Theatrical pause.

  “I, Jonathan Wild—otherwise known as the Night Magistrate, Shoulder-Clapper, Arch-Pig, Grunter-Scout, Carrion-Hunter of souls and men—am a physician of the economy. I ensure that things”—he glanced down, considered the watch, brought it closer to his face, murmured to it as if it were an infant in his arms—“circulate.

  “Now, sometimes elements gum up the wheel of Commerce. Maybe elements that didn’t mean to gum it up. But nevertheless they do. And when you gum things up”—he regarded Jack—“there are Consequences. In the spirit of those Consequences, I’m here to let you know that we expect sentencing in the next day. Two at the most.”

  Jack suck’d his teeth.

  “As you must know, property crimes warrant a capital punishment.”

  In fact, Jack did not exactly know that.

  The weakening sparks of the sulfur stick made it difficult to make out anything beyond a short radius, tho’ Jack discern’d that Wild had bent and picked up the chamber pot.

  Set it down. Pushed it close to Jack.

  “Fill this when you’re ready.” He waved at Jack’s wet stockings. “ ’Stead of wetting yerself like an infant.”

  Jack emitted a blur of sound.

  “I’m awaiting the arrival,” said Wild, sounding aggravated, “of the prison Doctor.*6 A new concept here but one that is sure to raise the profile of Newgate as the city’s preeminent gaol. He is, as usual, late, so I’m conducting his Responsibilities myself.”

  What do chamber pots—or prisons for that matter—have to do with doctoring? This question—circling Jack’s brain—was immaterial in any case because, lacking an arborvitae, Jack would be quite unable to hit the target even if he did consent to giving Wild his Effluvium.

  For a watch fob—he inwardly sobb’d, guts burning—I’m to be so-called doctored and then murdered for a watch fob.

  * * *

  —

  Wild placed the sulfur stick on the ground near Jack’s feet, where it spat hot Sparks onto his ankles.

  “Now, Jack, we’re coming up on the hour at which visitors have a peek at the inmates. For a fee, we’ll display a mad rogue, cowering in his own feces, a particularly lovely doxy…And then, of course, you—”

  Quite the profiteer, this chit*7 in his rum duds.*8

  “—a scrawny failed watch-nabber. More a joke than a prized Exhibit—but there we have it. Now, Mr. Sheppard”—Wild peered dramatically—“I can see you’re wondering, How can this mistake be turned to my account?”

  That was not what Jack was thinking.

  Because in the spluttering light, he’d twist’d his foot against the floor and spied it. A Nail that had worked itself partway out of his well-worn Boot sole. Enough, perhaps, to—

  He rolled his foot back down, hiding the nail’s Silhouette from Wild’s view.

  “Yes, I can see it in your eyes. You’re of a generation of abandoned Urchins. Abandoned by your parishes, your parents, by God and Opportunity itself. But I am here to collect all ye Abandoned and give you new life. A new family, too—a confederacy of colleagues—”

  Colleagues? Jack thought.

  “These colleagues,” Wild continued, “are amongst the best and most skillful thieves in London. And our mission is to, shall we say, doctor and systematize crime in this town. You’re just a chaotic young Lamb, but I believe you can be shap’d— All you’ve got to do is join in with me— I assure you what I have in mind is far beyond the petty thievery with which you’re currently dallying. I’ll arrange for your immediate liberation. You’ll simply have to come with me, and begin work this very evening.”

  Jack didn’t know terribly many things, but owing to Bess he knew this: Wild’s offer was a sentence of death in terms surer and more profitable to Wild than even his current situation. He would be match’d with a nefarious Turncoat to conduct a job that he’d then himself be fingered for, turn’d back in to the magistrate, and his death sentence expedited.

  “I’d appreciate some time to consider your Proposition,” Jack said, affecting the language he’d heard many times in the workshop as Kneebone haggled with nail-makers, wood-hewers and other suppliers.

  “Consider it?!” Wild sneer’d, incredulous. “Yes, do consider it. And while you’re pondering, there’s a group of people who are looking forward to seeing you.”*9

  * * *

  —

  A din down the hallway. Wild welcom’d it, nuts upon himself*10 as he opened his arms to the bourgeoisie. “Welcome, welcome! Come gaze upon the deranged and the depraved.”

  Dressed in brocades and silks, full of leisure and ill will, they emerged from the stairwells, flowing past Jack with a cruel, low-toned Hiss. Wealthy ladies who enjoy’d to spend afternoons gawking at rabble.

  “Oh my,” call’d the first down the line, adjusting her impossibly inflated citadel of a wig. “You’re nothing but a shrimpy thing!”

  The retinue crack’d into bleats of laughter, browsing past Sheppard, gaping at him bound in the wolf-gray gloom of his cell, facing death and the magistrate.

  A brusque dame clopp’d past on thick heels, whispering, “You’re a dead Dog,” through the bars. Then toss’d something towards him. A large muslin shawl. “Cover yourself,” she hissed.

  He hush’d the sound of the constant footfall. The nasty whispers. Did his Thames-dropping trick, imagining Water washing over hi
s head.

  * * *

  —

  And then he heard it. Voices. Something like what he’d heard at the watch shop. Something intimate and close.

  He opened his eyes. The awful gentry strolled past, laughing. Closed them again.

  First the Red Chapel-over-chimney; there I felt freer and close to God.

  Passageway outside was dark, but empty. Breath was there—away from guards and gawkers.

  The salt air of the river. Emancipated air.

  Jack had heard tell of coves going berserk in gaol. Clearly he was becoming mad as well. But he worried this in a far-off way, for he was very tired, and the murmuring had begun to lull him. He let the voices guide him far away from the clacking gentry, to Sleep.

  * * *

  —

  The next morning, an attendant shoved Papers under the bars. A cloud of Filth fluff’d from the floor. “Death warrant,” he said blankly, as if he were dropping a portion of eggs at the back door of an Inn. “You’ll hang by Friday. I’ll send the Ordinary for your confessions.”

  “I’ll not give them a thing to sell after hanging me,” Jack spat. “My tales are for rogues only.”*11

  *1 Speaking of bug-murder and desire, I totally bombed my date last night. Dinner at Ursula’s.

  Ursula and I both live at the end of this pretty scrubby cul-de-sac. Ursula’s got the very tidy house across the way. Really, the only nice joint on the entire sac. She had every tree in her yard cut down a couple of years ago. Never had to rake a single leaf since then. Smart woman. Very organized. Probably hates my yard-slacking.

  I ring the bell and the door opens to an inside as bereft of living greenery as the outside, but she’s compensated in her décor. Bright red fifties Formica dining set with retro placemats shaped like big palm leaves. That newish wallpaper with fake cartoonish landscape stencils. Bare branches against a white background, which gives the impression of a winter forest. It’s a bit cute and overdone, but it’s also—well, I’m trying to control that pang I get—the desire to be in spaces that women make.

  “Sit down,” she says, gesturing to a puffy red dining chair.

  She disappears into the kitchen. Returns with some pasta, sits with me and immediately—like before her fork even hits her food—launches into this story in that single-mom, thank-god-there’s-an-adult-to-talk-to kind of way.

  As it turns out, it’s a story about how her daughter has just started—you know—pleasuring herself.

  It’s a good story, and Ursula’s got this irreverent way of telling it, just throwing it out there about the kid’s masturbation habits. Real not-precious. I like it.

  So apparently this turn to self-pleasuring started the same week that the kid had her first meltdown about death. She says her kid “accidentally” killed a spider trying to put it outside. I raise my eyebrow right there, because what kid kills a spider accidentally? Anyway, clearly the kid kinda sorta killed it on purpose, and I almost want to point this out, but she’s recounting the course of events really animatedly and it’s also strangely racy, and I’m rather starved for both entertainment and sex, so I don’t point anything out, and in fact I’m anxiously trying to eat this pile of slippery cheesy noodle tubes in some way that isn’t conspicuous, although the possibility of slurping, or dropping a tube on the floor—or making one of the zitis “poop” its tomato sauce onto my lap through the downward pressure of biting—threatens at every turn.

  So the kid “accidentally” kills this spider and spends the afternoon dissolved in tears basically far beyond the point of any reassurance. Ursula tends all day to this despondent and hysterical child. Then night falls and the kid finally goes to bed limp and sodden and exhausted from sobbing. Ursula’s in her bedroom, getting into the latest reality TV, when she hears this moaning coming from the kid’s room. Low, guttural, frankly alarming sounds. She races in to check on the kid, ready to call 911, and—big surprise—the kid’s fine, standing at the edge of her bed, in fact giving it to her shark stuffie. And, shit, when it gets to this point Ursula just—she’s freestyling this story, okay, and it’s getting hotter and hotter and weirder. Because every possible description of fucking a shark stuffie is coming out of this woman’s mouth. Frottaging, screwing, humping, deep-dicking, what have you. The kid is just—she’s turning out this stuffie. And I couldn’t breathe from how hard I was laughing. And also, and inevitably, I’m also wondering: just how pent up is Ursula? She sure has a lot of ways of describing how done this shark got, and I’m considering that maybe she wants to get done too.

  Actually, it’s unmistakable that she wants to get done because next she’s like: Hey, you know that manuscript you said you’re working on. Have you figured out yet if it’s authentic?

  And I’m, like, Well, everything from that period is some weird mishmash. I deliberately don’t get into it at length. Because I don’t think she’s really asking me a question. She’s trying to say something, signal something to me.

  You said it’s really queer though—or trans, or whatever, she furthers. And is that, like—bites her lip—authentic?

  See. This is what I mean about signaling. Let me just say now that if you’re butch, queer, trans, etc., and you’re alone in a room with someone and they ask you a question about queerness or transness or the history of queerness or transness, it’s not because they want you to answer it. It’s because they want you to understand that they’re kind of queer. And they’re inviting you to do something about it.

  And—well—maybe I should have done something about it. I know that, technically speaking, I look like I could do someone pretty good. I’m aware that I have this sleazy but not creepy (says I!) demeanor. It’s sort of cultivated but it’s also just there—this wiry, wolfish aspect. You look at me and you just know you wouldn’t have to be embarrassed by any shit you wanted to do or get done to you because I’m already giving this kind of shameless, gross vibe. And clearly Ursula already knows everything about me, since she’s my pharmacist for crissake. So that’s a green light right there.

  (Not that that surprised me, actually. A lot of women are relieved not to have to deal with bio-cock, and to be honest, what I have going on—it—it intrigues them. It intrigues them libidinally, let’s say. And I feel compelled to reflect here on the fact that what I have going on was outsized even before the T, so now it’s just—well, I hope you don’t think I’m an asshole for mentioning it. Or, you know what, think I’m an asshole, I don’t care. You didn’t spend your early sexual life trying to explain your very—hmm—showy junk to confused young women [or maybe you did? If so: Hi!]. Back then it threw people off. What is this? they’d ask. Are you a hermaphrodite? Reader: They didn’t ask this with appetite.

  But that’s in the past. Because now that we’re all grown up and everyone’s seen a thing or two of the world and of bodies, it turns out there’s an entire population of women who really hunger for some mythic genital sublime shit. I mean, you would be surprised how many women like getting fucked by an unclassifiable monster. [Relax: I’m reclaiming the term. I like it. I mean, when uttered in certain contexts out of certain mouths. Must I justify everything?] Anyway, who could deny me glorying in this turn of events just a little bit? Didn’t I pay the price for this?)

  But it’s been so goddamn long since I did anyone that I’m just looking at the innuendos she’s dropping, kind of hanging in the air between us like I’m some kind of neutered benevolent alien who’s landed amongst humans and is hearing someone speak in vaguely translatable language about something called “sex.”

  So yeah, I ignore—or just stare uselessly at—the flirting and also, really, the story itself was the highlight of the week for me and I don’t really want it to end. It doesn’t make me proud to admit that this was my one and only social occasion in quite a while, and I’m drinking it in because the truth is Ursula’s got me laughing for the first time in I ca
n’t remember how long—and laughing, by the way, is the thing you miss worse than sex.

  At this point I’ve completely forgotten about pointing out to her that her kid is channeling some repressed aggression with the whole spider-murder thing. Cuz, really, I’m too busy giggling away, caught up in this story, and for just one second I find myself in the strange position of loving life. Just for one split second. Like: death-sex-repression, right? Whaddya gonna do. And now I’m seeing this kid’s whole adult trajectory—emotions, compulsive fucking, etc. And I’m feeling very together in that moment with my hot neighbor, together with her randy little kid and the sex shark. Like we’re all just these…beings who let desire fill us and pilot us like bloated corpses through our lives.

  But in a way it’s beautiful. And I kind of want to tell her this. To say something that encapsulates our beautiful entrapment-by-desire. Without being all theoretical and shmucky. I just want to convey our togetherness in this predicament. It doesn’t need to be smart. But it does need to be hot.

  Unusually, however, nothing’s coming to me.

  Worse still, I change the topic.

  To the worst topic possible at this moment. Honestly, an exegesis on Roland Barthes would have been better than this.

  I start talking about being put on unpaid leave.

  Why—god why—did I do this. I guess I was thinking maybe we were going to fuck, and if we were going to fuck, I suppose I wanted to be up front about everything.

  But this was—oof.

  Just to recap, she’s all, like, But is it authentic (biting her lip, etc.)—leaving a perfectly good opening for me to amplify the flirting—and then, in some impossible feat of ham-handedness, I go, Oh hey, did I tell you that I got put on unpaid leave at work?