Frank's Deli
Part One | Episode Two
Evanston, Illinois — Frank’s Apartment
Some people can sleep through endless nights of El trains passing by every twenty minutes. But as soon as Frank hears the sound of rain gently falling against his bedroom window, his eyes slowly open and sets on the alarm clock resting on the nightstand beside him.
For several minutes, while waiting for the time to reach 4:45 am, Frank listens to the rain and the breeze moving through the leaves and branches. Early autumn mornings like these are nothing more and nothing less than a gift. For every drop of rain that falls, specific moments and memories from Frank’s past—those that helped shape the emotional maze he’s long avoided walking through—seem to disappear.
4:45 am
The alarm goes off. Frank presses the button, exhales, and turns onto his back, staring at the ceiling.
“Olympio’s Melancholy,” he says quietly.
Monday through Saturday, Frank makes his bed the moment he gets out of it. He walks to the bedroom window and lifts the blinds for a brief look outside, as if each glance offered some form of nature fortune cookie, or personal horoscope.
The only thing that changes in his morning routine is the jazz record he chooses. Calm, and rainy mornings like this require something special. Something different.
As he considers which record fits the vibe, Frank moves into the kitchen and pours a grounded dark roast blend of Major Dickason’s by Peet's Coffee, the same coffee he buys every other Sunday at the Jewel-Osco on Chicago Avenue. While the machine drips, he walks over to his bookshelf, which holds hundreds of vinyl records. The collection always seems to say, I’ve got the works. Come get a taste.
Standing in front of the shelf, he hears distant thunder and pulls out Paul Desmond’s Easy Living album. He always smells the cardboard sleeve before sliding out the vinyl. Frank always loved the smell of old records and old books.
As he lowers the needle, he turns the volume to a low level—low enough that his neighbors almost always sleep through it.
Back in the kitchen, as he pours coffee into his mug, his phone vibrates on the table. Frank rolls his eyes and takes his first sip. There’s only one person who texts at five in the morning, and this uptown dumpster fire’s name is Gus.
Good morning!
Hey, I’m gonna be 20 minutes late. Had to wipe my ass with a stray cat. Anyways, see ya soon!
What’s new? Frank thinks.
After his shower, he packs his backpack, grabs his keys, and heads out the door.
Surprisingly, it isn’t the El, the coffee, or the jazz that wakes his neighbors—it’s the sound of his footsteps echoing down the stairwell. Old apartment buildings in Evanston and Chicago are like Vienna Beef hot dog joints: affordable, but full of character.
Outside, Frank opens his umbrella and strolls east on Main Street toward Chicago Avenue, taking his usual glance at the newsstand on the corner—the one that doesn’t open until eight.
He scans his CTA card and hustles up the same stairs he’s climbed since he was a kid. Some things never really change. Nor do they have to. Subjective or not.
At 6:00 am, he reaches the platform and looks down the tracks for the light of the southbound train. One thing Frank enjoys about riding the train is nodding to everyone who comes up the stairs. It’s always the same crowd.
“Here it comes,” he mutters.
As the train pulls in, he notices one of the regulars beside him wearing a fresh pair of brown leather shoes.
It’s been six months since Frank bought himself a new pair. He pulls out the small notepad he uses for large sandwich orders and writes:
Get new shoes for Paris.
The doors open. Frank takes a seat on the right side of the car and rests his backpack on his lap.
“This is Main. Ding-dong. Doors closing.”
Frank always takes the Purple Line Express to Adams & Wabash. From there, it’s a short and easy walk. The deli is located on 214 South Wabash Street, not far from Central Camera Company.
When Frank reaches the deli, he unlocks the gate, slides it aside, locks it into place, then opens the front door and steps inside.
The shop still holds the overnight chill. He walks over to the thermostat and sets the temperature to 72, stashes his belongings in the back room, and switches on the lights—first the shop, then the kitchen, the refrigerated cases, and finally the restrooms. He heads to the back, turns on the sound system, and grabs his clipboard with the day’s inventory lists.
To start the rainy morning right, Frank plays Luiz Bonfá and Stan Getz’s Jazz Samba Encore! album through the shop speakers.
After tossing a few soon-to-expire cold salads in the trash, there’s a knock at the door. The bakery delivery guy stands outside with the morning bread.
Something that Frank felt very passionate about, was finding the right bakery to source his Bread, and the right grocery store for produce that the Deli relied on for it's daily operation.
“Mornin’, Rob,” Frank says, holding the door. “Come on in.”
“Morning. Thanks, Frank.”
Rob works for one of the last few family-run bakeries in Chicago. He's a born and raised Chicagoan, Sox fan, and all-around decent guy. The energy tends to shift whenever Gus is around, and Rob does his best to avoid him.
Rob wheels in two racks stacked with fresh Italian bread, sourdough, ciabatta loaves, seeded baguettes, and classic white and wheat loaves.
“I put the bill in front of the invoice this time.”
“Appreciate it.”
“No Gus today?”
“Not yet, he’ll be here,” Frank says. “Running a little late.”
They exchange a look and shake their heads.
Rob hesitates. “Hey man, if it’s not too much trouble… any chance you could make me a sandwich? Forgot my lunch.”
“You're Ham and Swiss on Italian right?”
“Yes sir. Two, if possible. I’ve got twenty bucks.”
“Put it away,” Frank says. “Grab a soda for later. No worries. On the house.”
“Thanks, Frank. For real. And hey—I’m digging the music. Who is it?”
“Stan Getz and Luiz Bonfá.”
Frank pulls the ham and Swiss from the case. Rob takes a seat at the café table by the window.
“Never heard of him… oh fuck.”
Even through the closed door and morning traffic, they hear Gus approaching, singing Self Esteem by The Offspring.
“LA LA LALA LA—”
The bells jingle as Gus bursts in.
“I wrote her off for the tenth time today! Dun nuh nunnuh duh nuh nunnuhnunnah, and practiced all the things I would say!”
“Jesus Christ,” Frank mutters.
“Dude, sorry I’m late. The El was total chaos.”
Gus speed-walks behind the counter, passes Frank at the slicer, and keeps singing as he heads toward the back kitchen.
“Mayo, lettuce, onion, and tomato all right?”
“That’s perfect, man. Hey—do you have any peppers?”
“Yeah, I got you.”
Gus throws on his apron and walks back out.
“Back in samba town, aye, bud? Yo Frank, why the fuck is that douche’s truck still—”
Gus and Rob lock eyes.
“Gus, with the fucking mouth. Jesus Christ. Can you knock it off, please? Thank you.”
Gus folds his arms.
Frank sets Rob’s wrapped sandwiches on the counter.
“Here you go, Rob. Did you grab a soda for later?”
“Yeah, I got it. Thanks, man. Good luck.”
“The fuck?! Good luck?! What the fuck does that mean, jagoff?!” Gus snaps.
“Great. Here we go,” Frank says to himself, staring at the ceiling.
“Why don’t you go mind your business, you Pillsbury emo-lookin’ fuck?”
“Big words for a guy who looks like a dick with a Sox hat!”
“Yo Frank,” Rob says, “when you get your produce, does this piece of shit make everyone wait while he counts every piece of lettuce?”
“Fuck you, jagoff!” Gus fires back. “How the fuck was I supposed to make sure you fuckers didn’t short us?”
“Gus,” Frank says, “they’ve never shorted an order in the entire history of shorting orders. Ever.”
“I don’t know, dude,” Gus mutters. “He might have an extra baguette stuck up his ass or something.”
“Rob, see you tomorrow,” Frank says. “Gus—put the bread away and sweep the front. Now.”
Rob shakes his head and heads for the door.
“Vagina!” Gus yells as Rob steps outside.
Frank exhales. “Gus… I don’t even know where to start. What in the actual fuck was that? It’s not even eight o’clock and I’ve already got a headache.”
“It’s probably the samba dude,” Gus says. “Anyways, how was I supposed to know everything comes in dozens? It was my first time, and he kept rushing me like I walked into a fucking shoe store.”
“Oh shit,” Frank says. “That reminds me—I gotta get some new shoes for Paris.”
“Wait… what?”
“I need you to run the shop for a couple days,” Frank says. “You can close early if you want. I just need to go to Paris for a few days.”
Gus mimics him in a high-pitched voice. “I just need to go to Paris for a few days.”
“Come on, Gus. I’ll pay you an extra dollar an hour.”
“Frank, I can’t even wipe my ass without you being here. How the fuck am I supposed to hold down the fort by myself?”
“Then throw a piece of fucking salami at someone,” Frank says. “It’ll be fine. Come on—what do you say?”
“Fine,” Gus says. “But I want an extra day off whenever I want.”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Deal.”
“Good. Now pick it up—we’ve got another delivery coming, and I need the bread put away.”
“Heard. Can we turn off the samba?”
“No.”
Gus sighs, walks into the back kitchen, opens the walk-in refrigerator, and yells, “Fuck!”
Despite the shenanigans, the day flies by. The Red Line to Howard isn’t as packed, and Gus grows increasingly interested in Frank’s plans for Paris. During his break, Frank maps out a loose three-day schedule and orders a pair of classic white Adidas Superstars to be delivered to his apartment that night. John texts him on his way home to confirm the trip and suggests they talk later.
Coming out of the Main Street Purple Line station after work feels relaxing—rewarding, even. Before heading home, Frank stops at the newsstand on the corner, like he always does.
“Hey, Sammy! How ya doing, pal?”
“Frank! I’m doing well—thanks for asking. What’s happenin’?”
“Not much. Just grabbing the Tribune. Decided to go to Paris tomorrow night. First time leaving the country.”
“Paris! Wow, that’s fantastic. Hey, we’ve got an art magazine on the end cap—this issue’s all about museums in Paris. Why don’t you check it out?”
“Thanks, Sammy. I’ll take a look.”
“Take it as a gift from me! Or—if you’re feeling generous—bring me back a nice big Caprese sandwich.”
“That I can do. No problem.”
“Deal. Be safe out there, Frank. I wanna hear all about the trip when you get back.”
“Oh man—absolutely. Will do.”
As Frank leaves the newsstand and walks down Main toward his apartment, he flips through the magazine as he goes.
The apartment lobby smells like old cigars. The carpet—a dark maroon felt—looks like it’s capable of pulling anyone back in time. As Frank climbs the stairs, his phone vibrates. Balancing his keys in one hand, he pulls out his phone with the other and sees John’s name on the screen.
“Hiya, John. What’s cookin’?”
“Frank! How do you do? Hey—I emailed you the tickets. You’ve got an eight-hour flight leaving Thursday night at 9:00 p.m. You should land in Paris around noon.”
“All right. Sounds good. Man, I’m nervous—I haven’t been on a plane that long before. I owe you for this.”
“Frank, you don’t owe me anything. This is you getting the hell out of Chicago. Marie and I are proud of you. This is a big step—getting out of your shell and seeing the world.”
“Thanks, John. I really appreciate it. I’m packing tonight. I’ll close the deli early tomorrow and take the train to O’Hare. Gus said he’ll run the counter this weekend.”
“No train,” John says. “I ordered you a taxi. I’ll send the number—you just adjust the pickup time. Get there early and grab a bite at the United Lounge in Terminal 1. You’ll check in at Terminal 5, then head back to eat and grab a drink. I’ve got a guy there—he’s the manager. Shouldn’t be a problem. It’ll help you sleep on the plane.”
“Jesus, John… I don’t know what to say. Thank you, man. I’m speechless.”
“No problem at all. I get miles for free from work, and my company pays for everything. I’m just glad I can get you out of that deli for a weekend. You deserve it.”
“I’ll call you when I get back.”
“You better, ya salami-slingin’ fuck. Oh—and don’t forget to take off your shoes before the flight. Trust me.”
“I’ll look into it. Have a good night.”
“Marie says have fun. Talk soon.”
After the call, Frank pulls a record from his collection—Charlie Parker’s April in Paris—and lets it spin while he packs for the weekend.
Once he’s finished, he books a room at The Hoxton in Paris for a few nights and then orders a pizza.
Sitting on the couch, a gray cloud drifts into his thoughts. Frank wonders why he waited so long to leave—to take a break from the routine. He knows his lack of self-esteem played a role, and he’s painfully aware of it.
When he goes to grab the pizza and the box holding his new shoes, Frank pauses in front of the mirror in the lobby. For a moment, he studies his face—his eyes—and wonders if he’ll hide inside the hotel, embarrassed by his looks, or if he’ll push himself to experience the trip fully.
Paris won’t cure anything. He knows that. But maybe it’s a tool—a way to reconnect with who he is beneath the apron and the deli coat.
Either way, the trip is long overdue.
Thursday at the deli flies by. Frank brings his bag with him so he can head straight to the airport after closing. As he and Gus finish locking up, Gus waits with him until the taxi pulls up.
“Alright, Frank,” Gus says. “Don’t get lost out there. I’ll see ya when you get back.”
“Thanks, pal. I’ll call you when I get back—and try to stay outta trouble, will ya?”
The ride to O’Hare feels liberating. Frank can’t believe he waited until his late thirties to travel. He isn’t sure if it’s the eight-hour flight or the fact that he barely knows any French that makes him nervous, but beneath it all is a sense of relief he hasn’t felt in years. This feels like part of his story—the trip. The one that changes everything.
After checking his bags and printing his boarding pass at Terminal 5, Frank notices TSA PreCheck stamped at the top. He’s still two hours early. He considers skipping the lounge, then decides he’ll need a good meal and a drink if he wants any chance of sleeping on the flight.
Why not? Could be fun.
He boards the ATS train to Terminal 1 and doesn’t look back.
At the United Polaris Lounge, Frank approaches the front desk.
“Hi. Good evening—my name’s Frank. My buddy John told me to stop by and—”
“Oh yes,” the agent says. “John called ahead. Right this way, sir.”
She walks him toward the main dining room and bar.
“If you’re hungry, we have a buffet and a full bar with complimentary drinks. There’s also a menu over there if you’d like. Restrooms are at the end of the hall, and Wi-Fi is available. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No, thank you. Wow. This looks amazing. I appreciate you showing me around.”
“Enjoy your flight, sir.”
Frank eats a late dinner by the window, jazz playing softly as he watches planes lift off into the night. When he’s finished, he orders a glass of champagne at the bar.
As he’s nearly done, a blonde woman in her late fifties sits a few seats away.
“Hi there,” she says. “Where are you heading?”
“Paris. How about you?”
“Paris—that’s romantic. Lucky you. I’m flying to London for a few meetings, then straight home.”
“That sounds nice. Where are you from? I hear an accent, but I can’t place it.”
“Germany. And I’m guessing you’re from Chicago.”
Frank smiles. “Yeah. How’d you know?”
“I fly a lot,” she says. “My name’s Kathy. What brings you to Paris?”
“I’m Frank. I'm just going for a few days to relax. I haven’t taken a vacation in a long time. I guess I’m stepping out of my comfort zone.”
“Are you familiar with philosophy?”
“Not really. Just jazz.”
She laughs. “Jazz and philosophy have a lot in common. Improvisation. Passion. German philosophy talks a lot about existentialism—the will to power, romantic idealism. Why did it take you so long to take a vacation?”
Frank considers it. “I guess I haven’t always felt comfortable with myself. That got in the way of a lot.”
“It sounds like your leaves are starting to fall,” she says. “In autumn, trees lose their leaves and appear to die—only to be reborn in spring. Sometimes parts of us have to die so we can grow. The mind creates experience. Dying to become. Jazz wouldn’t be jazz if musicians worried too much about what others thought during an improvised solo.”
“That’s true,” Frank says. “I think I’ve focused more on disconnection than connection. Layers of separation between me and everyone else.”
“May I share something with you?”
“Sure.”
“Nothing can be compared to the new life that the discovery of another country provides for a thoughtful person.” ‐ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.”
“I like that. Maybe Paris is a bridge to something new.”
“Absolutely. Life is short. You have to keep moving your story forward.” She stands. “I should go. I hope our paths cross again.”
“Thank you,” Frank says. “This meant a lot.”
“It’s important to let ourselves change,” she says. “And it’s okay to let go and hold on at the same time. Enjoy Paris.”
"Thank you. Take Care Kathy."
“Au revoir, Frank”
Frank watches her leave, feeling as though someone unlocked his thoughts without judgment. It wasn’t painful—just honest. He takes one last look at the planes outside and heads back to Terminal 5.
At the gate, boarding begins almost immediately. As Frank walks down the jet bridge, the noise grows louder. Something feels off.
“Sir,” the flight attendant says with a smile, “your seat is actually in first class. Right this way.”
“No fucking way.”
“First time?” she asks. “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be back with a menu.”
Frank sinks into the seat, stunned. He pulls out his phone and texts John.
First class flight to fucking Paris. Unbelievable. Thank you, man.
After takeoff, jazz hums softly through his headphones. Frank drifts into a deep, dreamless sleep.
“Sir,” a voice says gently. “I’m sorry to bother you—we’ve landed.”
“Wait… what?”
“We’re in Paris.”
Frank looks down the empty aisle.
“Am I dreaming? Where did everyone go?”
“You were out cold. It was a quiet flight. Do you need anything before you head out?”
“No. This was wonderful. Thank you.”
“No problem sir. Enjoy your time in Paris, and thank you for flying United.”