Frank's Deli
Part One | Episode One
Chicago, Illinois — South Loop
Cold autumn winds, downtown traffic, and the El roaring past overhead replace quiet moments with sounds that are loud but familiar — almost comforting.
The deli door opens. Bells jingle.
John steps inside.
“Would you look at that,” he says. “If it isn’t Mr. Garibaldi himself.”
Frank turns from the counter, drops his head, sighs, shakes it.
“Jesus cocksuckin’ Christ, John. What do you want?”
“East of the sun, west of the moon, huh?”
“What?”
“Forever and a day?”
Frank stares.
“Sunshine and ravioli?”
“Oh, fuck off John”.
John grins. “You know, it ain’t about the cheese. It’s the way you chop the mozzarella.”
“Well, it ain’t your fuckin’ mother — but yeah, she keeps walkin’ in.” Frank gestures toward the counter. “So what’ll it be?”
John smiles wider. “Half a pound of Black Forest. Half pound of Genoa. And I’m looking for a real sharp cheddar.”
“You ever try Vermont?” Frank says. “I’ll give you a slice.”
“Aww, that’s sweet".”
“Go fuck yourself.”
Frank reaches into the display case and pulls out a tube of Boar’s Head Vermont cheddar. He peels away the plastic, sets it on the slicer, and locks it in place. A small shake of the head. Another sigh. He lifts the power knob, grips the handle, pushes the cheese forward with one hand, catches the slice with the other. He folds it carefully into parchment paper.
He walks back to the counter. They lock eyes for a moment. Frank sniffs, then slides the slice across the glass.
“Alright. Here you go.”
John steps back, glances at the door, then out the window as he eats the slice. He nods.
“You know something? That ain’t fuckin’ bad. I’ll take a half pound of that.”
“Comin’ right up, you cheap fuck. Thickness okay?”
“It’s good. Genoa and cheese just like that. But uh—can you shred Black Forest?”
“You got it.”
“Thanks Frank”.
John drifts away from the counter. He began to notice the black and white checkered tiles on the floor. Then the light blue walls that are fading around them. Framed photos of: Martin Luther King Jr., Michael Jordan, Humphrey Bogart, and Vintage Vienna Beef posters. There were several tables and chairs that look like they time-traveled from a Paris café in the late ‘60s.
Then the photo of Charlie—their childhood friend. Gone. Overdose.
John turns back and watches Frank work the slicer, his back turned, moving the meat back and fourth with mechanical patience. He seemed to be holding on longer than most people would.
Frank weighs the meat, prints the labels, bags everything neatly, and sets the deli bags on the counter.
“Order up.”
“Thanks.” John smiles. “Jesus, it’s like a book. You know you’re the only guy I know who seperates every couple slices of cheese with new parchment paper? I really appreciate that.”
Frank shrugs, forces a smirk. It does quite land, clearly indicating he’s feeling blue.
“Listen,” John says. “I don’t come in as much as I should, but what do you say we take a ride up to the North Shore? Go to the beach we used to go to as kids. I haven’t rolled a joint in years, but I’m down if you are.”
“I don’t know,” Frank says. “After I close up, I just wanna go home.”
“I’ve known you since we were thirteen. What’s goin’ on?”
Frank looks away. He rewraps the cheddar, the Genoa, the ham, and slides them back into the case.
John waits. Two minutes. The room fills with something heavy—something between loneliness and hearthbreak.
“Frank?”
“I always like seein’ you,” Frank says quietly. “I just wanna go home”.
“You wanna come over for dinner? Marie and the kids would love to see you.”
“Maybe next time.”
John takes off his Cubs hat, scratches his head, stares at the door.
“Okay. Well, did I do something wrong?”
Frank starts sweeping.
Silence.
“You have everything,” Frank says quietly. “And I’m just…a loser. We’re almost forty. I just wanna be alone.”
“Hey, no. You’re not a loser Frank,” John says. “We loved coming here after school. Now you own the place. Every Saturday morning it’s packed. The community loves you. We love you.”
Frank’s sweeping slows down.
“Jesus, Frank. I don’t think I can leave now.”
Frank stops. Stares at the floor.
“Are you getting any help? John asks. “How long’s this been goin’ on?”
“I think about it sometimes,” Frank says. “Things just slowed down. I’m just tryin’ to keep goin’.”
“Holding on and letting go?”
“I guess.”
“When was the last time you left town?”
“It’s been a while. Sometimes I think about Paris. Or Rome. Then I remember I gotta bring myself with.”
“You gotta figure out what’s eatin’ you, man. Maybe take a small trip.”
“It’s just a pipe dream.”
“I got miles from work,” John says. “Thousands. Wouldn’t cost you a thing. And honestly, I’d rather try to convince you to go, even if there’s a one-in-a-thousand chance of you saying yes. I haven’t seen you laugh in two years.”
Frank leans back against the counter, runs his finger down his palm.
“If you don’t go,” John says, “something else is gonna force your story forward. And whatever this is—you’re not alone".”
“Thanks John.”
A tear drips down Frank’s cheek.
“Listen, I gotta run,” John says. “I fuckin’ love you man. I’ll stop by this weekend and tell Marie and the kids you say hi.” He grins. “By the way—you missed a spot. And wipe your ass, cocksucka.”
They shake hands.
“I appreciate you,” Frank says.
“Arrivederci, Frank.”
John lifts a hand, steps out. Bells jingle. Sounds from the traffic outside fills the room again.
Frank watches the street. Breathes.
He pulls out his phone and puts on Chet Baker — The Touch of Your Lips through the loud speakers.
Autumn in Chicago is Frank’s favorite time of the year.
He exhales.
“Well, I guess I’m goin’ to fuckin’ Paris.”