The Sheboygan

By Barry F. Schnell

There were no verbs incorporated into the Sheboygan manuscript when the final draft drifted to shore in Havana, Cuba, at the turn of the century. A local sewage worker (who preferred to remain uncredited) found the manuscript, incorporated verbs, and sent it on to the publisher. This final, polished form is how it is presented to you here. The word masterpiece is thrown about very casually in this modern era, and there is no finer example of that than what you read here.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984538949

Barry F. Schnell

In his first posthumous work, Barry F. Schnell explores the depths of the feline psyche as it has never been extrapolated before. Barry F. Schnells final weeks along the beaches of Pitcairn Island were described by locals as being filled with arguments with palm trees, air quotes, and gluttonous excess. After cramming his manuscript into an emptied, dominated Jeroboam of pink champagne, Schnell grasped a wooden fork and walked into the ocean descending on a school of pufferfish never to be seen erect again.

Book preview

1

Chicky drew a salacious puff off of the Gurkha Black Dragon Mabel had waiting for him at that perfect moment. She presented it right after they made it, the way Chicky liked. Mabel knew her man. She plucked it out of the drawer of the marble top night table where it lay atop her never worn, black satin sleep mask adjacent to the near-empty bottle of Halcion pills.

Mabel watched Chicky puff. Then she sashayed her fingernails up from his abdomen, made little swirls on that small patch of hair in the center of Chicky’s chest, and gently pried the cigar from Chicky’s mouth. Mabel chomped down on the cigar with her own pistachio hole and took a slow-motion drag. She closed her eyes and blew the smoke up towards the popcorn ceiling. Then she gave the cigar back to Chicky, hopped off the second-hand mattress, and wiggled toward the bathroom.

Don’t forget to leave the door ajar, Chicky said.

Mabel knew. Chicky didn’t have to say. It wasn’t that he was a sicko, he was just cautious. He lived a lot longer when his gal or somebody in his crew left the door ajar.

Chicky laced his fingers behind his head and puffed away. It was good being out of the digger, he thought. He told himself he’d never go back, and that was three times ago. It felt good giving Mabel what-for and smoking the stogie. He missed both. How was he going to make it in the straight world, though? Suckers who work themselves into the grave for pennies on the dollar, that’s what straight jobs was. Chicky Rigatoni don’t park cars for no other man, he reminded himself; other men park Chicky Rigatoni’s car.

Mabel returned within minutes and pressed her still raw body up against Chicky’s beneath the clamshell patterned, linen bedspread. Chicky darted his eyes at her briefly, just to make sure it was Mabel, then re-focused up towards the ceiling.

It’s so good to have you back, Chicky. I was bottomed out without you around, Mabel said.

Bottomed out by who?

Oh, you!

Chicky was serious. He didn’t want any of his crew moving in on his action in any capacity. Even though he was only out of the picture for six months this time, that would still be time to seduce a broad and then get out of town before her regular man got wise.

Promise me you won’t go away again. Mabel said. Promise me.

Same screws been after me for seven years, you know that? It’s a promise I couldn’t keep if I wanted to.

Well, then, promise me you’ll stay out of serious trouble. And you’ll start taking care of yourself—no more booze or late-night lasagna and cotton candy. And you’ll exercise with me on the regular. And we’ll take a nice long holiday somewhere where the air is cleaner like Algonquin or Blue Island. Who knows—maybe we’ll even start a family?

Chicky sat upright and ditched his cigar into the rug javelin thrower style.

"No kids! I told you that a hundred times already. This life ain’t made for family. There’s family and there’s family, but I’m The Boss—I can’t be seen pushing no strollers or miss a meetin’ because you need some diapers brung home. Chicky said, calming somewhat. And I get plenty of exercise thinking about things and stirring your ragu."

Mabel sat up, too. Neither was modest about their body, and they sat frozen that way for the longest time. To the naked eye, Chicky froze faster.

If Chicky didn’t just want to get some shut-eye, he’d already been gone out the door meeting up with the crew. But it was a long day after being released and then working his way back home without help from anyone. Chicky took charity from nobody and also avoided public transportation for its obvious catering to, and preference of, degenerates.

Mabel didn’t want to do or say anything else to make Chicky upset. She didn’t intentionally push the child talk out like that—it just rolled off her tongue sometimes when she felt euphoric about the future. And she was always euphoric after a good plowing.

You want me to scramble you some eggs and a side of hash? Mabel said. And I’ve got some six-year-old Scotch whisky I won at the church Bingo last month I could unscrew.

Just the scotch. Make it a tall one. I’ve got to get some sack time.

In a flash, Mabel pranced to the cupboard above the fridge, unscrewed the cap on the scotch, and poured it into a cracked champagne glass—one of an identical set of five.

The whole dash couldn’t have taken more than ninety seconds. Chicky was out cold before Mabel crawled back into the bed. He lay on his left side facing her. His drool had bits of Gurkha Black Dragon and what looked like somebody’s eyebrows in it.

Mabel enjoyed the scotch herself and chased it down with a couple of Halcion.

~~~

It was cold and miserable outside. But this was Dolton, and it was December 29. Cold and miserable were the only known options in the region. The sun was up but not out. Ice was thick and unforgiving on every step, sidewalk, and street.

Chicky was gone when Mabel woke up around noon. His pants were still on the floor right where he dropped them when he came in the evening before. He must’ve just gone out in his robe and slippers to get the newspaper, Mabel figured.

After another hour had passed with no sign of Chicky, Mabel figured she’d shower, launder Chicky’s pants, and run down to the butcher shop to get a T-bone for Chicky and a petite cut for herself for supper.

As she lathered up, Mabel thought about the coupling with Chicky the night before. He was more horizontally intense than she’d ever remembered. Maybe his six months away invigorated him the way a gin martini never could. And when Mabel brought up the subject of starting a family, he didn’t really blow up as angrily as he had in the past. On one front he was harder, and on the other, softer.

Mabel was tired of making up excuses to her mother why there were no grandchildren yet. Chicky’s not ready to settle down. Chicky is up in the Dells on business for six months. Chicky is stressed about work. Chicky is laid out with gutworms. She’d exhausted them all.

In her subtle-sexy way, Mabel decided she would finally get Chicky to come around. Plus, she stopped taking her birth control pill. The New Year was right around the corner. Mabel counted on her soapy fingers and deduced a September birth was do-able. That would definitely please her mother—sharing a birth month with a new grandbaby.

Fresh from the shower, Mabel started in on Chicky’s pants. They were the same pants they took him away in six months prior. Clearly, they hadn’t been laundered in that time. While cleaning out the pockets, Mabel found half of a comb, four dull razor blades, a toothpick, a handkerchief crusted over with all sorts of biologicals, and a folded-up piece of paper.

She was careful to unfold the paper and took it over to the kitchen window where the lighting was slightly better. Drawn on the paper was a crude diagram of someplace made out in squiggly lines, rectangles, a train or possibly a horse, and something that looked like a pile of coins inside one of the rectangles. Mabel tilted the paper one way, then another, then shook her head. It meant nothing as far as she could tell, and she left it on the counter beneath the coffee pot. There were no words on the front of the paper, but Mabel never looked at the back of it.

Once the wash machine revved up, Mabel bundled herself up and made tracks for the butcher shop. It wasn’t a long walk. She was inside eyeballing the chops in under five minutes. She wouldn’t browse, either. Chicky had drilled into her the behavior to never linger in one joint for more than a few minutes. It was better than any insurance policy money could buy, Chicky said over and over again. Mabel picked out what she wanted via quick, decisive hand gestures, said nothing to anybody, and made her way back home. She hoped Chicky might have come back by then, but he hadn’t.

The pants were still in the wash. Mabel was hungry and fixed herself a hardboiled egg and a short glass of brandy for lunch. She permitted herself to become engulfed in suburban housewife daydreams for the longest time:

There was Mabel in her mint green, super plush, above knee robe, standing on the front porch waving good-bye to Chicky as he backed the Buick out of the driveway in route to his executive level straight job closer to downtown. Back inside the house, Mabel changed the baby’s diaper while she did yoga in the front room and her mother sat there on the sofa just beaming with approval. After yoga, Mabel, her mother, and baby, strolled through the park licking ice cream cones and taking on various compliments from the neighbors: Oh, what a cute baby; It’s amazing the way you walk balancing a diaper bag, mother, and baby; You lost the baby weight faster than anyone I’ve ever known, mercy!

Mabel poured herself another brandy but didn’t get to enjoy it right away as the end-of-cycle buzzer sounded on the washing machine. She placed Chicky’s pants on a line over the utility sink to air dry.

Outside, the weather looked like it was taking a turn for the worse. The light gray sky became a darker, unstable-cousin gray. Sleet flowed down from above. Hopefully, Chicky was inside somewhere. To be out in that, separated from his pants, could put Chicky in a foul mood that would carry on through the steak supper and all the way into the bedroom. That wouldn’t mesh with Mabel’s mashing maneuvers.

~~~

Chicky pointed to a purple, gooey spot on his outer right thigh.

This one I got when me and another guy tried to bust out one night, but I got clubbed in the leg by one of the screws, Chicky said. Believe me, I was the lucky one. The other guy, Vince I think his name was, his whole body looked like this when they was done with him.

Chicky was unburdening himself at the home of his trusted consigliere, Bobby Spackle. They’d known one another since the third grade. Bobby was a little slow in the mental processing department, but fiercely loyal and good with his fists. Bobby’s eyes, shoulders, and hips drooped like he was more affected by gravity than everybody else. Chicky trusted him implicitly.

Gee, Boss, that don’t sound too good for Vince. Bobby said.

It wasn’t, that’s what I’m telling you. I never seen a guy worked over so bad on the inside.

They worked him over right there in front of you?

Well, I didn’t see the actual beat-down if that’s what you’re asking. I just know when we made our break, Vince looked normal—you know, in the pink. And after we got pinched, they laid him out on the floor right next to my bed, but now all that was pink was blue.

Bobby shook his head and topped off Chicky’s vodka gimlet.

You sure you don’t want a pair of pants or a towel or something, Boss? That sleet storm outside is really bringing down the temperatures.

I got my pants back at our place. I figure I can swing by around supper time and pick them up if it’s absolutely necessary. I’m good just like this. I just had to get out of there, you know? We’re together for a couple hours after six months apart, and straight away she starts in with the making babies talk. It’s like she couldn’t talk about anything else.

I never knew Mabel was that way, you know, thinking about babies and such.

Oh, they’re all that way—especially this time of year. The New Year is coming, and a woman starts thinking about all the things she wants next year that she ain’t got this year.

Bobby nodded. They sipped drinks for a few minutes silently. Bobby kept catching himself looking at the purple blotches up and down Chicky’s legs. Luckily, Chicky never caught him peeking. After a few more minutes, Bobby’s droopy eyes seemed to follow a fly all over the room. There was no fly in the room.

So, you thinking about laying low in the New Year? Bobby asked.

Like how?

Like, you know, staying out of trouble. Maybe getting out of town if there’s some unknown residual heat on you for something might not be a bad idea.

They got nothing on me. If they had something, I’d still be under lockdown.

You want me to see if I can get you on at the cannery with my Uncle Peachy?

Chicky glared. Bobby wished he could take the proposition back as soon as he said it.

Chicky emptied his drink into his throat and responded one drawn out syllable at a time.

Chick-y Rig-a-ton-i don’t work for no man.

Bobby closed his eyes, bowed his head, and prepared for the worst. After the longest two-minutes of his life awaiting Chicky’s wrath, nothing physical happened. Chicky sat with a puckered scowl, but that was it. Bobby picked his head up.

I’m so sorry, Boss. I know that. I was just, I don’t know—how are you going to make scratch in the New Year? I’m sure they’re out there watching you extra close.

Chicky then smiled that cocky smile he sometimes got when he figured he had the drop on somebody. In his mind, he was always two steps ahead.

"I may already have got something in mind, my friend. And it has nothing to do with next year. It’s going to go down this year. And if my math is correct, it’ll be the last job any of us will ever have to do. When I got out, I had a lot of time to walk and think. And I stopped in some place, I don’t want to say where, and asked them for a scrap of paper and something to write with. They obliged, but I don’t want to say how. Anyway, about an hour later, I had it all sketched out like nobody will ever see the likes of again in the history of these types of things."

That sounds ripe, Chicky.

We’ll have Cadillacs up the ass.

2

Mabel prepared both steaks the way Chicky liked: black on the outside and red on the inside. Then she sat at the kitchen table listening to the sleet storm pummel the town. A single rose-colored stick candle illuminated the room in the middle of the sparsely set driftwood table.

There was a loud knock on her door—just one knock. Before Mabel could get to the door or shout Come in, her mother, the widow Cagna cul Doux, barged her way in. She kept her full-length, faux beaver wrapped tightly around her body and went straight to the liquor cart to pour herself a double helping of Sonnenschein Whisky mixed with Midnight Moon, what she commonly referred to as starters.

Hello, Mother. Mabel said.

Oh, Cagna said, dropping her fur covered backside onto the sofa, I didn’t think you’d notice me, given I didn’t hear from you the entire holiday season.

I thought you were on a cruise down to Yemen with Jigsaw Muldoon.

So? You can’t drop by and leave a note on the table for me when I got back to let me know you came by on Christmas?

Mabel figured she’d better go sit down with her mother and get the conversation moving so she’d be gone for when Chicky came back for supper. She popped the steaks into the microwave and zapped them on HIGH for five minutes to keep warm. Then she sat across from Cagna and opened a lingerie catalog on her lap.

That’s some weather outside, Mabel said. Are you still spending a lot of nights at Jigsaw’s?

That’s my business. Cagna said, finishing off her drink. I was merely curious as to whether you’d like to come over and celebrate New Year’s Eve with us. Jigsaw is having a few people, you won’t know anybody. Several of them are men.

I’m not looking to meet anyone. Chicky is back.

Cagna’s eye roll could be felt as far off as Elkhart, Indiana. Mabel had been on the receiving end of said eye roll for all of her twenty-seven years and still hadn’t built up full immunity to it.

Please. Mabel said. He’s back, he’s in great shape, and even earlier today, we were talking about maybe starting a family next year.

Gawd.

Happy New Year, Mother. Mabel said, standing up and tossing the lingerie magazine onto the coffee table. Hope we can bump into one another sometime or other.

Oh, sit.

I’m not going to have you come into my house and let you jab your satanic word forks into me up and down. Chicky is the most solid man I’ve had in my life, and you know it.

What’s the solid part—when he comes home one night out of every seven or when he doesn’t disappear on you for six months every spring?

You don’t know Chicky at all. He may go on the road, but he’s trying to run a business. Plus, he’s cautious—about everything. One step at a time. What, am I supposed to do—create a bad family situation like with you and one of your five husbands? Is it a coincidence that after two years with you they all end up throwing themselves under slow moving commuter trains?

Cagna calmly went and fixed herself another drink. She kept her back to Mabel holding a cracked highball glass just below her mouth.

I’m not saying I haven’t had some bad luck, Cagna said, draining the next drink before turning the glass upside down on the liquor cart. Then she spun and looked at Mabel. I’m only saying you should go for the loot while you still got your figure. If that shady character you call a husband has been stringing you along for this long, he’ll never make an honest baby bearing broad out of you.

On cue, Chicky entered, his robe untied, his humility absent.

Chicky, my dear! Cagna said. How good to see you again.

Cagna poured it on thick figuring she was two steps ahead of the guy who figured he was two steps ahead of everybody. She rushed over and hugged him then left a gargantuan blob of crimson lipstick and saliva on each of Chicky’s cheeks. Jellyfish left less unappealing marks.

You want to cinch up that robe, Hon? Mabel said.

I’m airing things out, Chicky said. It’s hotter than hell in here.

Well, I should go, Cagna said. Don’t forget about New Year’s Eve, sweet daughter. Oh, and of course Chicky is invited along.

Chicky went to fix himself a Fighting Cock, neat.

Mabel grabbed her mother’s arm and led her out the front door.

Good-bye.

Of course, Cagna said. Bye-bye, Chicky!

Mabel slammed the door and went into the kitchen to get the supper together. Chicky sat in the red leather Chippendale chair near the front window. He didn’t recognize any of the cars going by cautiously on the sleet-covered street, and it made him nervous. A boss can lose his edge when he don’t recognize every car what parks on his street.

What was that about New Year’s Eve that old crow was talking about? Chicky said, wiping Cagna’s gunk from his face with his robe sleeve.

"Oh, she’s nuts. She only came by to make me nuts. It’s her way of bequeathing me something before she croaks. Come on over and eat something, Chicky. I made steaks and lima beans with a side of kidney hash."

I ain’t hungry yet. Chicky said, finishing his drink. And I’ve got plans New Year’s Eve. We ain’t going anywhere.

Oh? Mabel said, wilted.

I mean, we’re going to the Ballroom Bar with Bobby and the rest of the crew and their girls. I was going to tell you this morning, but this monster here between my legs got in the way of any chit-chat. When he starts tearing it up, it’s hard to get in a word edge-wise.

Mabel was relieved. She thought for a second that Chicky was going to leave her alone on New Year’s Eve again like last year. And the year before that.

You seen my pants? Chicky said.

"Yeah,