The 11:15 Bench

By Paul Kijinski

Roger Jakubiak isn't where he thought he would be at age 45: single, predictable, and working as an eighth-grade social studies teacher in the same Cleveland area school district from which he graduated. Now a suspected brain aneurysm enters the picture to remind Roger that his life is more than half-spent, and that the vacuum at its center could only be filled by his first love, Regina Tucci. Roger becomes obsessed with the idea of reconnecting with Regina after a 25-year absence.

Set primarily in the late 1970s and early 1980s, THE 11:15 BENCH is a love story told by a wistful and often humorous first-person narrator.

Roger meets Regina in 1978 in their hometown of Cleveland, Ohio, during their junior year of high school. Roger is the son of a practical Irishwoman and an uptight Polish father who measures the value of all things against the value of the paint he sells at Sears. Regina is the daughter of divorced Italian parents. Mrs. Tucci is protective of her daughter, sending her to an all-girls Catholic school on a waitress's salary and praying that Regina will be awarded a college scholarship for softball. To complicate matters, many years ago Mr. Tucci entered a weepy, wine-inspired pact to eventually marry off Regina to Johnny Gargano, the son of a childhood friend.

Against this backdrop of clashing cultures and conflicting expectations, the young Roger and Regina manage to build a tender and passionate relationship. They experience their share of troubles, though, due to Roger's jealousy, his penchant for physical fights with other guys, and his susceptibility to "moments"—seemingly inconsequential matters that take on great significance for him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Kijinski
• Release date: Jul 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301556069

Paul Kijinski

Paul Kijinski is the author of the novel CAMP LIMESTONE, a winner of the 2007 Paterson Prize for Books for Young Readers, and other works of middle grade fiction. THE 11:15 BENCH is his first novel for adult readers. Kijinski was born in Garfield Heights, Ohio, and earned degrees from Oberlin College, The Ohio State University, and John Carroll University. He began writing seriously while serving as a missile officer in the U.S. Air Force. The solitude of underground launch control centers provided a uniquely rich environment for putting pen to paper. His final assignment in the military was teaching English at the Air Force Academy. Kijinski is currently an elementary school teacher in South Euclid, Ohio. He and his wife, Eileen, have two adult sons. Follow him on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Paul-Kijinski/543152702417355

Book preview

Chapter One

"Roger wouldn’t say shit if he had a mouthful of it," I heard Frank Danforth say in disgust. A couple of our teammates, Frank’s toadies, snickered.

Yeah? Well kiss my ass, you morons, I thought. I refused to say it, though. I made a point of not swearing in Frank’s presence because I knew it bothered him to find any male over the age of thirteen who could articulate entire thoughts cleanly.

I walked on tiptoe toward the snack bar, sucking air through a pained smile. Two minutes earlier I had crumpled to the turf of the indoor soccer field when a player from Serb United launched a rocket that hit me square in the groin. Son-of-a-BITCH! my inner voice had screamed. But all I uttered during my fall was Oh, man! And that’s what had set Frank, our team captain, on edge.

Honestly, we had no business being on the same field with the Serbs. All of their players were forty and over, just like ours, but they played as though they had been soccer stars back in the old country. This was supposed to be a recreation league for old farts, a time to get a little aerobic exercise and tone down the midriff bulge. As if a team called Semper Pie, composed of public school teachers in the twilight of our careers, could hold its own against Serb United!

Could I get some ice, please? I asked the ponytail girl working the snack bar. Her father owned the whole soccer facility, and I had seen her play for a premier team. She was an incredible athlete.

I’m one step ahead of you, she laughed, handing me a large Ziploc bag full of ice. From what I saw, you’re definitely gonna need this for a while.

I sat out the rest of the game, which was depressing. Not because I love soccer so much, but because my inaction caused me to dwell on winter break, which was starting the next day. Teachers typically live for two-week breaks like that, but I had nothing to look forward to. My father passed away in 1997 and my mother has lived in Arizona ever since then with Erica, my only sibling. I had decided not to make my annual visit to Phoenix in the hopes of recapturing the magic of a white Christmas in Cleveland, but each day of December led me a little deeper into the doldrums. The next day was the fifteenth already, and I hadn’t even put up a tree or decorations.

The facts of my life situation paraded numbly past me like visitors at a funeral parlor: Unmarried . . . Alone . . . Predictable . . . Forty-Five. Come to think of it, Forty-Five served as usher for the other visitors. My birthday had arrived a week earlier on December seventh, an unfortunate date for the birth of an American social studies teacher. Just about every year some smartass eighth-grader will ask, When President Roosevelt called December seventh a date which will live in infamy, was he talking about the attack on Pearl Harbor or about your birthday? I play my part well, looking stunned as though I’m hearing it for the first time. Good one, I say, wagging my finger.

Forty-five: A life more than half-spent, and with what to show for it? Certainly my students. I’ve always loved teaching and having a positive impact on young lives, but I’m talking about something to hold onto in a more selfish sense. What was there for me to really call my own? Only a bag of ice to soothe my aching gonads. Oh yes, and most likely a brain aneurism or two. As much as I tried to forget Dr. Simpson’s solemn prognosis, I couldn’t ignore the pain thrashing about in my skull.

Okay, let’s see what you got, you shitheads! Frank lashed out at two forwards who were about to sub in. It always amazed me that Frank could turn off the foul language tap as soon as he hit school grounds. In fact, I’ve witnessed him hauling boys to the assistant principal’s office for cursing during phys ed. One of you better score within the last minute here so we’re not the laughing stocks of the whole league, Frank continued. If I’m getting double-teamed, then that means one of you is open. Makes sense, right? So when I cross the ball right in front of the fucking mouth of the goal, you just tap it in. That’s it—just a little tap. Am I asking too much? Am I some sort of over-competitive prick because I expect someone else to step up for a change and make something happen on this team? So help me God, if one of you doesn’t come through for me, I’ll go ape-shit crazy on both of you!

Frank had been threatening to go ape-shit crazy on us for years. He kept himself in terrific shape and would still qualify as a badass in most people’s minds. He was a former Marine who now trained fighters in mixed martial arts and helped coach a college baseball team when he wasn’t teaching physical education to middle-schoolers. He prided himself on being a man who stood his ground. In fact, the only thing Frank ever compromised on was the name of our soccer team. He had named us Semper Fi after the Marine Corps motto, but when Artie, a quirky language arts teacher, suggested Semper Pie because we always went out for pie and coffee after a game, the name just stuck. No offense to you or your Marine brothers, Artie had reassured Frank. Frank matter-of-factly gave him the finger in reply.

We all accepted Frank’s filthy language and rough demeanor as manifestations of his years in the Corps. He had served with the 1st Marine Division and deployed with them during the first Gulf War. Believe it or not, he never bragged about his experiences there; in fact, he never even talked about them. I did a little research on the Internet, though, and discovered that his unit had seen a lot of action. Semper Pie’s captain is a man with blood on his hands, I thought and couldn’t help being a little impressed.

Thank goodness, there would be no ape-shitting that night after our soccer battle with Serb United. One of our chided forwards poked in a shot to make the final score 8-3, quite a respectable showing against the Serbs.

By the time we got to Bakers Square, my presumptive aneurism had lowered its voice to a low murmur. I shared a booth with the same three teammates as usual—an eighth-grade social studies colleague and two high school math teachers. They all had wives and kids and talked about their busy two weeks ahead with a dramatic mix of ennui and joy. There would be gifts to buy, football games to watch, chores to do, naps to take, mothers-in-law to placate, beers to drink, wives to reassure, feasts to savor, and children to yell at. Also, children to hug.

What about you, Roger? Steve asked. You got anything good going?

Just taking it easy, I said casually. If I feel like it, I’ll work at the kiosk with Gary just to pass the time.

We envy you, Chris said. You’re your own man. Never have to check in with anybody.

My mind drifted to Regina. I would have given anything to have to check in with her. Well, we all order our own pie in life, I said with a forced smile and stuck a fork in my half-eaten wedge of French silk.

Chapter Two

I met Regina Tucci in the fall of 1978 when I was sixteen years old. Hey, Regina from Regina wants to meet you, Stephanie told me after one of our gymnastics meets. Regina High School is a Catholic school just down the street from my childhood home in South Euclid, a Cleveland suburb. Since it’s an all-girls school, many of us boys used to rhyme its name with vagina.

Seriously? I asked. She’s here? I knew that Stephanie had shown Regina my picture in the Brush High School yearbook and that she reportedly thought I was cute. That had been intriguing news to me. I had gone to a Catholic church my entire life, but there was still a certain cachet about a girl who was Catholic enough to attend a school like Regina.

Stephanie pointed to the stands at two girls in plaid skirts and white blouses. One was blonde and cutesy—definitely the cheerleader type—and the other was brunette and more mysterious looking. I figured that a girl with a name like Regina Tucci would have to be the darker of the two. Please be her, I thought.

There, she just waved, Stephanie said. It was the brunette who directed a timid half-wave at us.

Stephanie had had the same boyfriend since eighth grade and made it her mission in life to play matchmaker. She often complained bitterly about her relationship with Tony, a boy in the grade ahead of us, so I’m not sure why she was so intent on forging relationships for others, unless it had something to do with the old adage about misery loving company. Stephanie would say things to me like, If you could choose between necking with me on the couch or going bowling with a stupid friend, which would you choose? Well, you could just imagine which option poor old Tony had fatefully chosen the night before.

Regina from Regina, this is Roger from Brush, Stephanie said. I shook hands with Regina and her friend, whose name was Cathy McArdle.

Great job out there! Cathy gushed.

Yeah, you were really good, Regina added with a reserved smile.

I had turned in a pretty decent performance in both the pommel horse and vault events, and I felt pretty confident about my build in my gymnastics uniform. I was hoping that Regina found me at least somewhat attractive in person because I was absolutely mesmerized. She had beautiful brown eyes, thick hair pulled into a ponytail, and a nice, solid build. Stephanie had told me that she was a terrific fast-pitch softball player, and I could see the strength in her arms and shoulders. She wore a simple gold cross pendant that touched the edge of a dark freckle on her neck. That’s it! I thought. That freckle is mine! I wanted to taste it.

So . . . Stephanie began, smiling wryly at Regina. "How would you and Roger like to see Magic this Friday with me and Tony? It’s supposed to be really creepy."

Oh, sure, Regina began and blushed. She turned to me. I mean if you want to.

Yeah. Definitely, I said.

I’ll have to meet you there, though, Regina said, still red. I hope that’s okay.

Sure, no problem, I said, confused.

After the Catholic girls left, Stephanie explained that Regina’s mother was incredibly strict and wouldn’t allow her to go on driving dates until she was eighteen. Stephanie didn’t want to say anything about this up front because she thought I might not agree to a date at all with such a sheltered girl.

Eighteen! I scoffed. What the hell is her problem? The mom’s, I mean.

She’s kind of kooky. Really religious, I guess. And ever since Regina’s parents got divorced, the mom has become even more anal about everything.

Well, when is her birthday?

She’s about a month and a half older than you. She’ll be eighteen next October.

That’s almost a whole year.

Let’s just get you through Friday night for now, cowboy, and then we’ll see if you’re willing to wait.

I didn’t have tons of dating experience before Regina, but I had gone to school dances and out to the movies with a few different girls. My longest relationship had been a one-month stint with a redheaded girl named Carol Hartley. I even went on my first big driving date with her to Geauga Lake Amusement Park, about forty minutes away. We were supposed to double-date with her cousin Sarah and Sarah’s boyfriend, but they wound up backing out the day before our trip, which was especially disappointing because Sarah’s boyfriend was two years older and was supposed to drive. Let’s go just the two of us, Carol suggested. I talked my dad into letting me take the baby blue Ford Granada, and off we went.

The sense of independence was absolutely exhilarating. We drove with the windows down and cranked up the tunes on the FM converter that I had installed on a bracket below the AM radio. Carol painted her fingernails frosted pink while we were driving, and the smell of nail polish never smelled so sexy and dangerous to me. She held both of her hands out the window to hasten the drying process. Shit! she exclaimed and presented her fingers to me. The enamel had rippled up toward her cuticles, and we both cracked up laughing. Leave them like that! I said, and she did. It was our little secret how they came to look that way. We went on lots of rides, ate greasy, overpriced food for lunch, held hands all day even when they had gotten soggy with sweat, and necked countless times behind a picnic pavilion.

Within two weeks, her cousin Sarah called to say that Carol was breaking up with me. She can’t do this herself? I wondered. Carol thinks you’re really great, Sarah explained, but she just wants to be friends. Okay?

By the next Wednesday Carol was holding hands in the hallway with Connor Fouts, who, as the name alone might suggest, was a captain of the Brush High School football team. Big freakin’ deal, I thought as I nodded at the handsome new couple. How do you go from a whirlwind date at Geauga Lake to a new guy in such a short time? We had shared a moment, for Christ’s sake! Beyond the rides, the handholding, and even the necking, the rippled nail polish incident had been a moment, and no one could ever take that away from me. Would a goon like Connor Fouts ever be able to perceive the goodness—the unscripted, innocent, sensuous, and even sensual goodness—of a moment like that? Hell no! Had Carol even perceived it?

My brief introduction to Regina told me she would be different.

Chapter Three

I was standing alone beside the ticket counter when Regina entered the Richmond Mall Theater. She was wearing light brown corduroys and a cream-colored cowl neck sweater. She looked really pretty, but unfortunately, the sweater covered her freckle.

Hi! I said cheerily, trying to put her at ease. I already got our tickets.

Oh, thank you, she replied and looked around.

Stephanie and Tony aren’t here yet, I explained. But I’m sure they’ll be here real soon.

I offered to get us something from the snack bar, but she politely declined. Fortunately she didn’t ask for a jumbo popcorn and drink, because that would have wiped out my wallet until the next payday from Gary’s kiosk and my once-a-week job with a caterer. I asked if she liked Junior Mints and she nodded yes, so I bought a large box for us to share.

I spent the next ten minutes asking lame questions like, Do you like your school? (It was okay.) How’s your fast-pitch softball team looking for the spring? (Pretty good, she guessed.) and, Have you started thinking about what colleges you might want to attend?" (Not really.) I swear to God, my armpits were getting moist just standing there trying to stimulate some kind of interaction. Was everybody looking at us, wondering what the hell our problem was? Was this girl forced to be out with such a loser? I wondered if this would turn into another Geauga Lake, where a double-date gets downgraded—or upgraded, depending on how you look at it—to a single-date.

With two minutes before show time, Stephanie stormed into the theater with Tony about five paces behind. Stephanie had on a ridiculously tight pair of Jordaches and a light blouse, even though it was a pretty chilly November evening. (My mom had wondered aloud once, after Stephanie visited our house, whether such tight pants would negatively impact her ability to bear children one day. Her comment confused me then, and still does to this day.) Stephanie marched over to Regina without even saying hi to me and embraced her as though they hadn’t seen each other in a month. "I’m gonna kill him," I heard her hiss.

Tony gave me that shrug of exasperation that takes an average guy ten years of marriage to perfect. It’s a gesture that efficiently expresses the sentiment, Women—can’t live with ’em, can’t shoot ’em. As it turned out, Tony had forgotten to bring a Bee Gees tape that Stephanie had wanted to listen to during the ten-minute ride to the theater. And then he refused to return home to get it for fear of being late to the movie.

The point is, I talked to him on the phone right before he went out the door to his car, Stephanie told Regina while Tony ordered a jumbo popcorn and two drinks. So typical. I think this is another example of ‘forgetting on purpose,’ if you know what I mean. Stephanie was ahead of her time in using finger quotes to indicate irony or incredulity.

The projectionist was showing the final movie trailer when we shuffled into the darkness of the theater. Right there—four together, Stephanie said, and Tony led the way into a row. We two guys were seated as bookends, with Regina on my left. If there was any chance of putting my arm around her, it would be awkward because I’m right-handed. I feared that going the other way would feel as unnatural as throwing a ball with my left hand. Five minutes into the movie, Stephanie was snuggled against Tony and all was apparently right in their world once again.

Magic is an engaging story about a magician named Corky who absolutely bombs onstage until Fats, a ventriloquist’s dummy, enters the act. The problem is that Fats has a mind of his own and proves to be a murderous little bastard in a classic reversal of master and puppet.

Regina grabbed my arm twice during startling scenes, and I was excited that she felt comfortable enough to do that. Sorry, she whispered breathlessly. No, it’s fine! I assured her. The third time she grabbed, I swallowed a Junior Mint whole and decided to go for it. Left arm be damned! I eased it around her shoulders and she responded exactly as I had hoped, pretending not to notice that a move had been made. Adjusting to the left wasn’t such a challenge after all. I handed the candy box to her and whispered, You finish them. For me to get any more out of the box I would have to use both hands, and I was too satisfied with the current arrangement.

When Fats tells Corky, We’re gonna be a star, and drops his hinged jaw to articulate a singsongy sta-ah, my eyes met Regina’s. Oh my God! our expressions said. Fats’s diabolical appearance and use of the first-person plural to express his union with Corky made for a flash of cinematic brilliance in an otherwise mediocre psycho-thriller. The gleam in Regina’s eyes told me she felt this too; that she could detect and appreciate a moment when one arrived.

That was cool! Stephanie proclaimed for all of us as the final credits rolled. She gave Tony a peck on the lips, and we all filed out into the brightly lit lobby. My left arm ached from shoulder to wrist, so I did covert flexes and rotations to coax some life back into it. Let’s go for ice cream, Stephanie suggested.

Sounds good to me, I said and looked to Regina. She blushed as she had done when I first met her in the gym.

My mom wanted me home right after the movie, so I better get going, she apologized.

Your mom? Stephanie protested. Isn’t she working tonight?

Yes, but she’ll call me from the restaurant, Regina replied and then looked at me. Sorry. . . . And thanks so much for the movie. She was shy and sincere, and I knew I wasn’t being given the old brush-off.

Let me at least walk you to your car, I said.

Regina hugged Stephanie and I shook Tony’s hand. Meet us at the DQ, Roger, Stephanie said as Regina and I walked out. I’m sure she couldn’t wait to begin her