WHY!!! Why did I do this?
And it doesn’t stop there. I keep going. Extrapolating the situation.
It’s not like I was laid off, I clarify. More like aside. Laid aside.
It’s not a good joke, but Ursula laughs anyway. She’s trying to keep the momentum going, trying to build me back up, I can see, because now she’s asking me about whether I can get a grant, work on the manuscript and get paid for it while I’m on leave.
Maybe something will come through, she says.
Which launches me into a hurricane of self-pity. I tell her about all the times I’ve applied and gotten nothing. How my colleagues are forever being, like, All the humanities funding has dried up, on their way out the door to their latest grant-funded trip to Italy. I’ve given up on applying. I never get anything anyway.
I’m sure something will work out, she says, with sort of a dropping-off tiredness in her voice.
It was clear that was the end of the evening. I came home and jerked off.
*2 Robbers of the lower apartments of private houses
*3 Money-coiners
*4 Lead-metal thieves
*5 Corpse-stealers
*6 Prison Quackery (aka “Correctional Medicine”) did not officially begin until the prison reform movement of the later nineteenth century. So says Michel Foucault, in any case. What we have here is thus potentially a fucking miraculous find. A quite unique early document of the biopolitical management/control of populations? If truly authentic, this would set the agenda for Discipline-and-Punish-Studies™ ever after.
*7 Cad
*8 Fancy clothing
*9 The entire prison is an enterprise. It is Wild’s special, awful “genius” to have recognized this before almost anyone else in British history.
*10 In love with himself
*11 On the topic of profiteering fuckwads: Today I received a very strange email. The subject line read FUNDING OPPORTUNITY. It came from “P-Quad, Inc.”
Yeah, I knew who they were. Canny motherfuckers. See, P-Quad isn’t really a publishing company. It would like to think it’s a publishing company, but really it’s a much-reviled churner-outer of educational testing materials. I know this because last year the administration tried to ram through a similar company as the sole private supplier of standardized tests to the University. Tests that are designed, actually, to be failed, in order to legitimate the firing of unionized faculty and indeed decimate the entire faculty union tout court. Not to mention the number it did on the students, having to take these tests in the first place.
The faculty used to call urgent meetings to hear themselves loudly complain about private testing, and then not do anything about it. Faculty like to imagine that being upset counts as political activism. Not like I was much better. I went to one meeting just to see if there was anyone cute there. As usual, there wasn’t.
Anyway, suffice it to say I knew who P-Quad was.
But how did they know who I was?
They had me pegged so perfectly.
Can you imagine: they quoted Derrida in their email to me?
Dear Dr. Voth,
We have heard of your need for research funding for your work with a certain recently discovered manuscript. We have a vested interest in supporting archival work. Indeed, we are establishing an Archival Text Authentication Division that models itself on Derrida’s view that “Archival meaning is also and in advance codetermined by the structure that archives.”
Our Authentication Division, as just such a structure-in-formation, is prepared to pay you handsomely to work on a freelance basis to establish the meaning of the archive which you’ve come upon.
I was quite sure that they and I did not have the same understanding of “the structure that archives.” I mean, Reader, the violence they did to Derrida in this email was truly unconscionable.
I responded.
Dear P-Quad,
As I am sure you are aware, what Derrida means is that the archive is less a record of what has been said, and more an ongoing problem of what cannot be.
What is forgotten, repressed, disallowed.
The stakes of this become clearer, in fact, through the lens of decolonial theories of the archive. Following Walter Mignolo (The Darker Side of Western Modernity: Global Futures, Decolonial Options), the “meaning” of the archive is clearly less important than that of the archive’s inevitable “epistemic disobedience.”
Not that a private testing corporation would understand.
So let me put this plainly:
I decline your offer.
The email rattled me. I paced my kitchen gnawing the chocolate off the contents of an entire bag of chocolate peanut butter cups and worrying—How did they know about this manuscript if it had never been catalogued by the library? How did they know I had it? Was I being watched?—until I reread the email enough times to realize that they had never mentioned what the manuscript actually was. So okay, I concluded, this was likely the kind of spam email that the book-buyback companies sent around. That fake personal “Professor, are you on campus and could use some extra cash?” kind of thing.
13.
Working over his irons in the dusky cell, dark curls plaster’d across his forehead, and inky circles ringing his eyes—Jack’s lips strained as he twist’d his feet against the iron chain between his legs.
The voices came back to him.
Red Chapel. Dark passageway. Salt air. Emancipation.
They were, he thought—he hoped—
* * *
—
He worked the nail most of the way from his boot by lever’ng the side against the ground—pressing down hard ’til his ankles bulged and ached. Thence to pressing one handcuff against the nail tip, placing it gingerly into the Slit—holding his breath—feeling for the Voids where the key was meant to catch. On a click, Jack wiggled the cuff against his foot until the catch popp’d. Did the same with the other wristcuff until both were sprung free, releasing a layer of fine red Rust.
Crossing the room to the Chimney—Red-chapel-over-chimney—Jack wedg’d himself into the sooty Enclosure and peered up. The egress had been filled with brick. He set to work at the mortar-cracks. Fat gray grubs fell by the squirming dozens, and within moments he had produced a pile of bricks and a Hole not much wider than his shoulders.
Tho’ some former craftsman had installed an iron bar across the vault in the event that an inmate should attempt an Exit, Jack thrust the Bootnail between the bar and its casings, loosening it with a shower of dust.
He stood, brushing grubs and soot from his thighs. Hoisted himself into the chimney and up into the dark.
* * *
—
At the floor above, the chimney opened into a Hearth cluttered with Charcoal and wood chips. The room had an unused look, tho’ Jack recalled a rumor that the Spitalfields tailors had been once hous’d here for eight days, several of them hanged for the crime of “confederating” for better wages and hours.
There was neither Handle nor Knob on the inside of the far door, adjacent to a window looking over Holborn Street. Flashes of yellow Light from the sputtering oil lamps outside the chapel window threw a menacing air.
With his shoulder press’d hard, Jack tested the door—found it latched tight from the opposite side—and began to break away part of the wall around the hinges. Still wielding the nail from his boot, he scrap’d, all the while fearful of being heard by the wardens, or even the debtors in the common hold directly below, should they raise an alarm.
The wall was thick, and noise considerable—a battery of scraping from the Nail, and plaster rain’d down. Just as Jack’s spirits began to fail him, he found he had produc’d a small hole in the wall. He poked the nail through to dislodge the bolt fastened on the other side of the door, slid, then push’d the door open with
a small strangled Cry from the hinges.
* * *
—
Now he came to a passageway in full darkness—Passageway outside is dark, but empty. Breath is there—away from guards and gawkers—that concluded in a stout door guarded by Bolts, Locks, and Bars. The chimes at St. Sepulchre’s rang eight o’clock. Time was short. He attack’d first the nut at the hinge. Tried to discern how much rust was clogging it—tho’ it was hard to tell—so, patting up the side of the door ’til he reached its hinge-knob, he caressed its dome, then smelled his fingertips to assess the quantity of tang. A fair bit. He attempt’d to dislodge the Nut upwards through the rusted hinge, flapping his elbows like bellows—to gain nut-loosening momentum—alas, Nothing.
In something of a panic, he attack’d the fillet of the door—the ring encircling the nut—straight on with the nail. It cleav’d with a soft silvery Mutter.
* * *
—
Having now gotten through the door and to the next, Jack found it locked from the inside. This he could simply unlatch, and lo, he was on the Roof of Newgate, looking over the street. The lights still lit, people milling in shops. It was a simple jump down the front-Face of the prison wall to the largest overhanging Gargoyle. He could land full on its back, then dangle off the Snout—an eight-foot drop to street level.
But, with the quantity of street traffic, he was sure to raise quite an Alarm.
At this side of the prison wall, the nearest adjoining roof was a private Residence. He might escape that Rooftop way—unseen to the Hagglers and strollers—but this was a much more considerable seven-yard Jump. A bone-breaking, uncertain leap.
* * *
—
A terrible thought occur’d to him— He had to go back—to retrieve the long muslin shawl from the Condemned Hold.
* * *
—
When Jack return’d to his cell, he found the shawl was moved—in fact, dragged off to the puddle of muck just outside his cell but quite beyond reach—and a rat chewing happily at it.
The chimes struck. Shortly the Newgate Ordinary would be by to strive to take his confession once more. He’d broken his cuffs —they were lying scattered across the floor. Bricks everywhere and nowhere to hide them. He would be hanged immediately.
Jack lung’d against the bars, reaching for the shawl. His face ached against the Iron. He tsk’ed desperately at the rat, calling to it like a frisky Pup.
He was roundly ignored. The rat continued chewing, its tail flicking contentedly in the dank shallow water.
There was only one way about it— He would have to use his only item of clothing—his stockings—to climb down.
He would be dangling stockingless above the streets of London.
* * *
—
Back through the dark passageway, the Red Chapel, and then the sooty chimney, returning the same way through the passageway once more ’til, with his Heart thrumming, he burst out the door, sprinting back across the roof like a Housecat broken from its confinement. The salt air of the docks stung his face—can smell the salt air of the river. Emancipated air.
* * *
—
The prospect of being caught escaping in dishabille press’d upon him. They’ll paint me in the papers. Bess will see it.
He had a flicker of hesitation—perhaps he ought to return to his cell. Let them kill him in the morning for his escape attempt— Let them kill him before all of the Town—at least let them kill him with his breeches on.
But then— Bess, this thought of Bess, the Horizon of Bess and he-knew-not-what—spurr’d him on. Jack removed his Stockings and tremblingly fixed one end to the wall with the indispensable Nail, and let it fall. There was no turning back.
* * *
—
Jack’s mind went blank—he went to his Thames place—and then, half-Naked, clinging to his breeches-rope, he fell for a stomach-jittering length of time—and landed square onto the neighboring house.
His legs held, but just barely. Quaking, he looked about—the garret door was open—he slipped inside and down a stairway.
A woman within gave a cry.
Jack froze—
“What noise is that, John?”
“ ’Tis nothing but the cat, wife,” a man shush’d.
—and unfroze. Descended the stairs to a dressing room where he spy’d a most handsome set of breeches, waistcoat, and topcoat.
Jack paus’d briefly to smile at the quantity of coin in the breeches-pocket— Thence quickly down the next narrow stairway, and Jack was strutting out the door looking quite the proper gentleman.
* * *
—
Jack passed by St. Sepulchre’s, tipping his hat. Down Snow Hill, Holborn, the Watch-House by Holborn Hill Bars, then Grey’s Inn Lane into the Fields outside the city walls. He achieved a pasture where cows were kept, some of them lying in the wet Night grass. He stretched out amongst their soft snuffles and snapping tails. He dreamt of his Confessions—the ones he would not give to the Newgate Ordinary. The book of his confessions was illustrated in silver filigree. He was leafing through this book of his life, and it was beautiful. There was him and Bess in a forest of pale, silvery leaves. They were making love. He was free and easy, his heart open, unguarded.
In the morning, Jack was awoken by a dull gray rain. The cows had abandon’d the Field for the stables. Not even a field mouse skittered in the cold Dirt and grasses.
Jack struggl’d to his feet, gave his coat strategic tears—to feign a beggar’s cloak—tied a kerchief around his head for Disguise, and staggered towards the City thinking of a warm cider and breakfast Steak.
* * *
—
The Olde Eare Inn occupy’d a cellar below the street, and Jack entered to a cloud of warm, thick breath. The room was pack’d with folks; none looked up. He took the only free spot, at a small round table at the edge of the fray, underneath a begrim’d pane of glass looking out at a variety of passing shoes.
The room was abuzz. With news of him.
Sheppard broke the lower hold at Newgate—Sheppard—Gaolbreaker General—Son of Eternal Night—Uncatchable Sheppard—Sheppard showed the wardens the face of their hubris—Sheppard made a mockery of the gates and the bars and even the walls—Sheppard’ll come liberate us all—free all the Newgate birds—a rogue greater than Wild—more canny than the architects of confinement—geniuser than all the magistrates in London.
They were at ev’ry table discoursing about him, unaware that they were in the presence of this same Gaolbreaker General.
Jack grinn’d into his roast meat. Conversation rose all around—white-gray Light illum’d the thick window Glaze. Steam rose from the fry pans fogging the Hearth.
A woman at a neighboring table, making her way through a plate of peas and veal, shouted, “I pray a curse might befall anyone who betrays Sheppard!”
The innkeep, passing by with a plate of sugared crackers, retorted, “Overheard the pawnbrokers in Drury Lane conspiring to put together a Watch to catch the thief and claim a reward.”
Fear gripp’d Jack’s throat.
As the rabble commenced a song in his honor—Rawhead and Bloody Bones! Now is come London’s true rogue!—he slipp’d out the door.
14.
Bess held Jack close in bed, examining the scrapes and bruises from his excarceration.*1 Jack squint’d morning Sun out of his eyes.
“You’re all right,” Bess said, patting at his temples with a damp cloth. “You’re all right now.”
Somehow, he was all right—was beginning to be more than all right. A door had closed between him and Kneebone and all the Mousehole of his life and all his timid rules-following. The door had shut fast.
While he was inhaling the warmth off the mug of hot water Bess had given him, she ask’d, “What part of Newgate?”
>
“Underground.”
“Under the Keeper’s Chamber?”
Nodded.
Bess put down the cloth. “You were in the condemned hold. No one’s ever broken out from there—ever made it out alive.”
“I’m alive, though,” he said, after some quiet. “I broke out.” Half-smiling, half-shuddering with retrospective Terror.
There are not terribly many things to do in the face of such specters of What-might-have-been.
In addition to which, Bess was wearing a dark gold Negligee.
Her eyes were bright and dark. She and Jack look’d at each other for some Time. He tried not to become too absorb’d in watching her breasts breathe against the silk— He leaned forward—kissed her. A long one. A not-so-nice one.
Reach’d down—coaxed her legs open—her upper thighs were wet—inhal’d the scent rising— Her hands were in his hair, pulling him down to her. The word “love” presented itself to him, unbidden.
He wrapped his arm around her waist, drawing her to his lap. She took a cozy place across him, in his arms, and from here he was able to drop the Straps of her nightgown down her shoulders—and let his head fall to her breasts.
There he spent an incalculable quantity of time in joy, hunger, lostness.*2
The heat of her in his lap caused wave after wave of tumult to crash against Jack’s breeches.*3
He kiss’d her breasts—her mouth—her Neck—petted between her legs, where she puls’d against his Fingertips.
Periodic’lly he dropped his face to her Armpits—nose-deep—sucking hard as if air—real air—only lived in the Nooks of her body. He held, toyed with, drenched his fingers in her Quim. His love for her Quim was encyclopedic. How she was ashamed and thrilled at once to show him— How it clenched around him, throbb’d and breath’d— How she gasped and stared at him when he filled her full with his hand, squeezing at her little Sponge inside.
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