Pancho grew up in Texas, which accounts for the name he assumed. Franz was born and raised in Baltimore, which doesn’t. They met at college somewhere in the Midwest, where Pancho majored in narcissism, and Franz, in egocentricity.

Pancho and Franz had one strong trait in common, a characteristic that drew them to one another, bonded them such that they became inseparable — and that was self-love. No one ever accused either of excessive self-effacement; modesty was not counted amongst the faults of either.

Throughout their college years, followed by graduate studies, whenever anyone encountered Pancho, Franz was always to be found close at hand. Friends and casual acquaintances even began to remark that they resembled each other.

After leaving graduate school — without degrees for, by this time, they had found each other far more fascinating than any of the subjects they had chosen to study — they became their own most acclaimed promoters. It was in the afterglow of an especially strong and lengthy period of self-absorption that the pair decided to go forth and become one with the universe — whatever that meant — in their search for the absolute.

But, where would they venture, for neither had much knowledge of the world outside of themselves? Pancho thought of London, but that city seemed so far away and Franz, in any case, had already “done that.” Franz suggested Alaska. Pancho did not think the climate beneficial ... and, who lived there? So, they went to San Francisco.

Surveying the environs on their arrival, everything and everybody seemed so colorful — the vegetables, the restaurants, the houses, the people ... especially the people. They found a charming flat right in the middle of the city.

Actually, as they were to learn from the real estate agent, flats didn’t exist in San Francisco: “Here, we have subdivides.”

Their house, subdivided into subdivides of three or four rooms each, looked out onto a charming park, although the perspective from their particular subdivide was somewhat obscured by the wall of the adjacent house. Nevertheless, a little of this and a little of that would render it homey and precious, Pancho said to Franz.

Pancho was particularly impressed with the haberdashers and spent his time dashing from one to the other, rounding up articles that, in the Midwest, had been clearly impossible to locate. Franz sought out the tea houses which, it appeared outside of the Midwest, were called espresso bars. Franz mused about all the mornings and afternoons he and Pancho could partake of conversations with their cohabitants discussing thoughts and ideas on a range of topics he and Pancho would introduce ... especially oneness in their search for the absolute. It would be so much fun.

They thought of writing poetry, especially whilst sitting in one of the espresso bars where there appeared to be the greatest opportunity to attract listeners, and where the tables, being in close proximity to one another, allowed for intimate conversation with neighbors. Pancho thought of holding evenings at home. Franz thought of operating an organic produce stand. They both thought a lot, mostly out loud so that they could be part of each other’s thoughts. This they both found profound. As they were proud of their intellectual natures, they were eager to share them with others.

But, with whom? Everybody in the espresso bars seemed to be equally absorbed in their own conversations, and no one made an effort to eavesdrop on Pancho and Franz’ intimate dialogues.

How were they to interest others? Before leaving their subdivide, Franz would make a list of topics he and Pancho thought would stimulate conversations among those at other tables. But, no one stopped their own discussions to listen or express opinions on the brilliance of the topics chosen by Franz and Pancho. After several weeks, they ran out of topics — even witticisms drew blanks from their neighbors who were either immersed in their own conversations or were writing poetry, unmindful of the engaging, nattily turned our pair at the neighboring table. No one cared.

Pancho would read some poetry he had written — spontaneously — that Franz had admired, saying Pancho should have it published in a little chapbook. But no one put down their Mont Blancs or allowed their espressos to cool in order to listen.

Perhaps their voices were too soft and didn’t afford the poets at neighboring tables to hear? Oneness didn’t materialize in Pancho and Franz’ horizon, and the absolute remained an abstract concept.

Whilst they enjoyed their lovely subdivide with its precious knickknacks, and the San Francisco climate was lovely too, maybe a change might be for the best, Pancho thought. Perhaps New York — Greenwich Village, Soho? They had heard others speak of its charm and of its intellectual vitality. Why not try?

So, one Sunday afternoon when everyone else was either sitting in espresso bars or on the stoops of their own subdivides — reading poetry, writing poetry, or coloring their hair — Pancho and Franz packed all their possessions in a rented U-Haul attached to their Volkswagen, to be transported to their new subdivide in Greenwich Village, New York.

A month later, after reciting poetry to one another as they crossed the continent, Pancho and Franz found themselves in Sheridan Square, in the heart of Greenwich Village. It was so alive, so filled with sound — every kind of sound — and so colorful, especially the people — their clothes, their hair, and their nails. Everyone wore sandals.

Pancho said they must find a subdivide. But there weren’t any subdivides in Greenwich Village — only lofts.

Did they mind climbing six flights of stairs? No, certainly not; good exercise. No, they didn’t have bikes, but where could they garage their VW? Three hundred a month? Outrageous! The subdivide ... we mean, the loft, was only four twenty-five. Doesn’t the garage appear ... somewhat dear? No, we weren’t being fresh; we were expressing our horror concerning the relative priciness of garaging our VW. Sell the VW? But how would we get around? Bikes? But wouldn’t riding a bike soil our trousers?

The landlord’s agent recommended a very reputable secondhand bike shop in the neighborhood where they could purchase a couple of used bikes ... and locks, too. “Don’t forget locks; you’ll need them. Around here, everyone locks their bikes ... and get rid of that VW as soon as you can. No parking on these streets at any time — unless you want a chassis without wheels.”

“Well, he was quite something,” Pancho and Franz sighed to each other after the agent had left with their first and last month’s cheques, the security deposit and a signed lease with a “no pets” clause — and no more than four occupants allowed, no subleasing and no noise after 2:00 in the morning.

“At least we talked him out of our parents co-signing the lease,” Franz whispered to Pancho. “Let’s stroll around the neighborhood,” he demurred. “I bet there are loads of comfy nooks where we can engage others in real conversation.”

They proceeded — arm in arm, for everyone it seemed walked arm in arm in Greenwich Village. But all the nooks appeared to be located in basements, and to enter you had to walk down some steps, the doors being under some sort of overhang which was, in most cases, a fire escape.

“Truly astonishing!” breathed Pancho. “People really venture into basements to drink coffee and read poetry? Well, let’s give it a go, shall we?”

And so, our friends silently stole down the stairs leading to the adjacent coffee house, like a pair of interlopers.

The inhabitants of Greenwich Village drank coffee in coffee houses, unlike their counterparts in San Francisco who sipped espressos in espresso bars. This distinction took Pancho and Franz aback, for they had quite accustomed themselves to sipping espressos and cappuccinos — although cappuccinos had been treacherous for Pancho due to his somewhat droopy moustache which he carefully waxed at every occasion. But they said to one another, they must heed their principal aim, and that was not to lose themselves in mere details.

The coffee house was full — full of people, full of smoke, full of noise, and full of smells most of which were anthropological and repugnant to both Pancho and Franz. Pancho thought of using his hanky which he had carefully sprayed with his favorite eau de cologne before leaving their loft — to protect his delicate nasal passages from the onslaught of the salad of odors — but Franz stayed his hand, telling Pancho in as quiet a manner as possible — given the din of the den — that he should refrain from what might be seen by others around them as unseemly behavior.

Our friends awaited the hostess to seat them. After an interval whose length suggested that this coffee house lacked that particular service, Pancho and Franz seated themselves at one of the few vacant tables remaining.

They glanced around them, surveying the crowd — or at least attempting to, for the smoke was thicker than a Los Angeles smog. Then, as though Cinderella’s fairy godmother had waved her wand, there was silence. Someone in a rather unattractive and rather worse-for-wear cardigan began to strum a guitar and sing.

“Charming,” murmured Franz.

“But do you see his cardigan?” mumbled Pancho.

“Dreadful. Perhaps he’s poor,” Franz concluded.

“Well, yes, in that case it adds to the ambiance,” Pancho added in an undertone.

The singer proceeded, and Pancho and Franz found themselves swept along with the sheer singleness of the experience.

“Assuredly his singing was not ... well, it was more a recitative, more like Rex Harrison in My Fair Lady, but charming ... yes, truly charming,” confided Franz.

“I wonder if we should clap when he finishes?” nudged Pancho. But the singer went on and on and on, and it seemed to our friends that there would be no end.

And then, someone else, in another part of the coffee house — a girl perhaps ... Pancho and Franz couldn’t see through the smoke — began strumming on another guitar, and singing. Before Pancho and Franz could say Jack Robinson, others all around them began strumming on guitars and singing.

“This is jolly,” thought Franz, “a real songfest. If only we had guitars, we, too, could join in the fun. We could be one with all the others. Why don’t we go immediately and purchase guitars?”

Pancho and Franz emerged from the smoke-filled coffee house into the exhaust-filled evening, searching for a musical instrument shop.

The following day was Sunday, and it appeared that no one went to coffee houses on Sunday. Everyone stayed home and read the New York Times.

“Quaint custom,” mused Franz. They purchased a copy of the Times and spent the day snuggled on their couch reading the Times cover-to-cover — except the sports section which they both thought banal and a tad barbaric.

Monday turned out to be a glorious day. The sun was shining, there were a few high-level clouds, and just sufficient wind to be termed breezy. Pancho and Franz took the guitars they had recently purchased and sauntered down to the nearest coffee house.

It was noonish, but they thought folks would be lunching and, of course, drinking coffee. The coffee house they intended to patronize that day was closed: “Gone biking,” the sign read.

“What odd people,” said Pancho ... aghast. “Just take off, without any notice or regard for their patrons.”

So, they tucked their guitars under their arms and ventured forth, off to another coffee house.

Closed. No sign. Just closed. Locked, and very dark inside.

“Well,” huffed Pancho, “they could have at least put a sign on the door expressing their regrets.”

Sooner or later, they knew they would find a suitable coffee house, open and ready — if not eager — for a general guitar-in.

But, no luck ...  or not quite. They did find a Turkish coffee house that was open. Actually, it never closed. 24-7-365.

Franz was willing to risk entering, despite his dislike for Turkish coffee which offended his recently acquired Midwestern prejudices, but Pancho prevented him, reminding him that they didn’t know any Turkish tunes — nor Turkish poetry.

By this time, dusk had descended and people were starting their cocktails. Pancho and Franz trudged back to their loft, finding the six flights of stairs quite a schlep — an expression they picked up their first evening in New York, for it seemed that everyone in the city was either schlepping somewhere or schlepping something somewhere — with their guitars which, together with the cases Pancho had insisted on taking with them, as they “made” the outfit.

The very next day, after the sleep of the depressed, Pancho and Franz awakened to the cooing of pigeons. How bucolic, they both sighed. They commenced to make plans for their sally into the world of guitar playing and poetry reading in coffee houses, in their search for oneness and the absolute.

It took quite some time to find just the right atmosphere: not too crowded, with a goodly mix of both men and women, all wearing jeans of a distressed variety, all with notepads and Bic pens, all in look-alike hairstyles — that is, long, stringy, and a tad on the greasy side. Pancho and Franz felt they would truly stand out in such a crowd and be, thereby, appreciated all the more.

They settled themselves at a centrally located table for, by now, they had acclimated themselves to there not being a hostess to perform this formality. Someone, a number of tables remove, was in the midst of rendering a poem, self-accompanied on his guitar. Before he concluded, another patron took up the melody, continuing the lament on lost innocence and youth. By the looks of those surrounding them, Pancho and Franz deduced that the lyrics were somewhat dated and, perhaps, in actuality were a poem composed by a poet of a past generation.

By the end of their fourth mug of coffee, the duet finished to hushed approbation. Pancho, always anxious to show others how accomplished he was, wondered when he and Franz should demonstrate their talents, but Franz felt it would be best to allow others — the habitués — lead and he and Pancho join, demonstrating at the same time their camaraderie to one and all who, of course, would instantly recognize their genius.

They did not have long to wait. Someone at a table adjacent to theirs began reading a poem. Soon her neighbor took up her guitar and commenced accompanying. A third woman hummed — or at least Pancho believed the murmur he was hearing was a hum ... though it appeared more like a chant. A fourth, then a fifth ... until there were perhaps a dozen women vocalizing at different levels, while their neighbor continued reading her poem in a flat, monotonous voice.

At some point — Franz afterward couldn’t recall exactly when — Pancho began to harmonize, using his guitar in the sotto voce manner he felt gave style and framed his mezzo-tenor voice.

Suddenly, silence descended. Guitars stopped strumming. Voices dropped off as though they had encountered a cliff. All except Pancho’s.

Pancho’s voice soared like an eagle, dropping the mezzo and adding new heights to its tenor. Pancho stood alone, his eyes closed, his head tilted skyward — or at least ceilingward — felt spasms of rapture thinking of the effect he was having on all those in the coffeehouse. At last, he was at one with all, there was only one and he had become part of it. The absolute was next. The smile on his countenance was truly saintly — or so he imagined it to be.

Pancho didn’t feel the tug at his elbow — not immediately. A half-minute lapsed ... perhaps a minute, until Pancho’s voice landed on a high “C” ... and stopped. Franz’ tug had been followed by a swift kick to Pancho’s shin and the instant pain to that extremity prevented Pancho from continuing his performance — solo voce.

The ensuing silence was heavy and pounding. Pancho looked around in expectation of thundering bravos ... or, at the very least, a “well done” here and there. But, no. Silence. Instead of praise, laudatory expressions of thanks, Pancho found silence — deafening, ear-piercing silence engulfed the coffee house.

Pancho looked at Franz, a look of “what did I do?”

He’s not breathing, Franz thought.

Suddenly, the color began draining from Pancho’s face. Franz thought his friend would pass out from his lack of breathing, so he slapped Pancho on the back. This only made Pancho cough, its effect in the coffeehouse being like a needle dropping on primetime television, but the point at this moment was that they should leave.

And leave they did — with their guitars and severely damaged amor propres.

Franz had to act like a crutch for Pancho who began mumbling and drooling the moment they heard the coffeehouse door slam on their backs. The humiliation, the utter humiliation. Why? Most of the time, Franz could not understand his friend whose babbling resembled that of a two-year-old — in sotto voce.

Back in their loft, they began packing. If they left after midnight, they might avoid a face-to-face encounter with anyone from the coffeehouses.

Pancho and Franz took the 6:00 A.M. plane to Paris, to resume their search for oneness with the universe and the absolute. They had not found it in San Francisco, nor in New York’s Greenwich Village. Something was missing. But what?

Ah, Paris. Home to lovers, artists, bohemians, and shopkeepers. Liberty, fraternity, and equality — especially fraternity, thought Pancho. Where would they go first? Franz had always wanted to visit the Louvre, and Pancho, the Musée des Arts Décoratifs. But first, they had to find a place to live. Franz though Montmartre, where the Impressionists and Post-Impressionists had lived, but Pancho had heard that the bohemian scene had moved away from the Latin quarter since Mimi and Armand — to Montparnasse. And it was thence our friends went in search of ... they weren’t sure of what.

They soon learned that, in Paris, if one were a poet one lived in either a studio — if you had money wired to you monthly from home — or in a garret — if not. Garrets had the sound of romance — Pancho thinking of La Bohème — but he had become accustomed to hot water and a roof that didn’t leak, and he wasn’t at all sure if garrets held the same respect in coffeehouses today as they did in the time of Proust. Why not compromise and find a lovely studio on the top floor of a seedy building? That way no one could accuse them of being bourgeois snobs?

Many landlords had recently converted the top floors of their seedy tenements into cozy studios for the increased demand from American postgraduate students, but they found a suitable top floor studio that fitted our friends’ preconceived notion of how a poet searching for oneness with his fellows and the absolute, should live.

Luggage on the flight from New York had been restricted. Pancho and Franz had deposited their excess baggage in the care of Franz’ sister Denise, in Brooklyn, bringing mainly their T-shirts, khakis, and läufers — the uniform of poets and thinkers back in Greenwich Village.

So attired, they ventured into the streets of Montparnasse, to find coffeehouses, poets, oneness, and the absolute.

They had read of the Dôme, La Coupole, La Rotonde, and Closserie des Lilas, for both our friends were avid readers and admirers of Gertrude Stein and Hemingway — although neither believed that Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas would have been found in a public café, preferring to take their coffee at home.

But sadly, these cafés — for in Paris they didn’t have espresso bars like in San Francisco, nor coffeehouses like in Greenwich Village, but cafés — now catered to American and German tourists. There wasn’t one bohemian, let alone an honest poet, around.

Where was one to find oneness and the absolute? In desperation, Pancho and Franz thought they might try the Sorbonne and make a few discrete enquiries with students there.

Approaching the university, they encountered students who informed them that they ought to frequent cafés in the neighborhood of the Sorbonne, for no one — especially poets — went to the Dôme or La Coupole any longer; they were for tourists.

“Et, au fait, ici à Paris, il n’y a pas poéts, ni les artistes, non plus les bohémiennes. Nous avons l’intelligentsia. Bon jour.”

“Well, she was friendly, wasn’t she?” Pancho exclaimed, “but I only got a little of what she said.”

“I believe she was telling us that poets, artists, and bohemians no longer exist in Paris, only the intelligentsia,” Franz translated for his friend. “But she wasn’t a ‘she’, Pancho. ‘She’ was a ‘he’.”

“Oh well, he was friendly, wasn’t he?”

They didn’t have long to search, for in Paris, cafés were as common as pretzel carts on New York’s Madison Avenue.

Immediately on entering the nearest café, Pancho felt uncomfortable: they were wearing all the wrong clothes. No one wore T-shirts, khakis, and läufers. It seemed the French wore well-worn black knitted sweaters, preferably with discrete holes randomly placed, old jeans, probably on their way to the sales counters at the Abercrombie & Fitch 5^th Avenue shop in New York, and discolored sneakers. Men as well as women. Everyone.

Pancho turned on his heels, for he did not wish to be humiliated and mistaken for an American tourist. They needed a secondhand clothing store where they could purchase the local costume.

Our friends returned to the café, suitably sweatered, jeaned, and sneakered. But few students remained, and those who had remained seemed to be reading Sartre rather than reciting poetry. Pancho and Franz left to find another café and perhaps some camaraderie for which the Paris of Hemingway and James was notable.

But they were also tired and happily decided to rest for a few days.

A week later, they again returned to the café, this time with high expectations that the intelligentsia would be there in numbers. On entering, everyone appeared in great animation, probably arguing over some obscure philosophical point; a bit like academic fencing, mused Pancho.

But the air was thick with smoke — Gitane cigarette smoke. What a filthy habit, thought Pancho, who was quickly reminded by Franz that Pancho’s family had been able to afford to send him through university on the profits from the liquor distributorship they owned in Texas.

“Well, it’s still dirty and smelly,” huffed an indignant Pancho. “At least liquor has its social justifications ... morals aside. How can anyone think in this ambiance? Really!”

After several demitasses — for in Paris, those with money drank demitasse; those without, café crème ... and Pancho didn’t want the garçons to think he and Franz were pauvres. Franz suggested they leave, as he was feeling somewhat ill from the smoke and body odors ... for they realized that the French hadn’t discovered antiperspirants and applied far too much eau de cologne.

Our friends tried many other cafés, with little success. All were noisy, smoke-filled, and retained an underlying odor — a strange blend of humanity and rue de Rivoli. Finally, they discovered that if you didn’t bathe for several days, the effects of the cafés were tolerable.

They tried to engage some students in conversation, thinking that they would be afforded the opportunity to read some poetry that Pancho had had translated into French the afternoon when Franz had lain on the bed in the loft, prostrate from nausea caused by the claustrophobic atmosphere of the cafés and their attendant smells.

But everyone in the cafés talked at the same time, on top of one another. And in such an excitable manner, too! No one listened. Where was their politesse? Their sense of déportment? Hadn’t any of them read The House of Mirth? And they call themselves civilized? Pancho would have nothing to do with them. They were cretins, savages, ill-mannered thugs!

Pancho stormed out of the café for the last time, with Franz following, scooping up his friend’s indignation as the two left Paris — never to return.

Our friends continued their search to become one with their fellow humans and their search for the absolute. Their quest took them to the Germany of Werther, to Tolstoy’s Russia, to the mystics of central Europe. They sat at the feet of the great yogis in India, and meditated with Buddhist monks in Bhutan.

Years passed. The only person who knew their whereabouts was Franz’ sister Denise, who kept mailing them packages of their belongings, c/o American Express offices. Disillusionment was engraved in their features. They were approaching middle age without having enjoyed the awareness of youth.

Finally, they decided to return to America, to the Midwest town whence they had begun their odyssey. Both were as far from becoming one with the universe as they had been the day they had left on their search, nor had they found the absolute. No matter where they went, no matter who they met, no matter what they did ... something was always missing. What ... they could not say, but in their gut, they knew that something was missing.

Dejected, they walked down Main Street. Nothing had changed during the years of their absence. The people looked the same ... only older. The buildings looked the same ... only shabbier.

“Look,” Pancho said to Franz, pointing to one of the shops. “Mike the Tailor is still here. Let’s pay him a visit.” Arm in arm, they crossed the intersection and entered Mike’s shop.

“Well, if it isn’t Pancho,” Mike declared when he saw his old customer, and he grabbed Pancho’s hand and shook it mightily, as they do in the Midwest. “Have you come for those trousers you ordered way back? Wait a moment; I’ll fetch them,” and Mike walked unsteadily — for he had developed arthritis since he last saw Pancho — into the back room, and returned with a pair of tweed trousers.

“I’d completely forgotten that I’d asked you to make them,” Pancho told the tailor.

“Try them on. See if they fit,” Mike told him. “You might have added a few pounds during your travels.”

Pancho took the trousers into the fitting room and when he came out, his smile told Mike that he was very pleased.

“They’re perfect, Mike,” and he and Franz left the shop with his parcel tucked under his arm.

“Let’s stroll down Main Street, shall we?” Pancho suggested.

Something was different ... no, it was the same, too.

The hot dog stand. Had it always been here? Yes, of course. They had eaten dozens of their Kosher hot dogs, with mustard and relish on tasteless buns.

“Why don’t we eat a hot dog?” Franz said, as they stood in front of the stand.

“But Franz, the buns are not brioche,” Pancho reminded his friend.

“Does it matter, Pancho? They’re Kosher, and we haven’t eaten a Kosher hot dog in years.” So, the two friends sat on stools beside the stand and wolfed down three hot dogs each, for, as Franz reminded his friend, “This is something we’ve both missed in all of our travels.”

After they finished and wiped their mouths with paper serviettes, they continued their stroll, now pleasantly happy, as both had been famished.

“Why don’t we stop at Shaw’s supermarket and buy Perrier?” Pancho thought. “After the hot dogs, my throat is parched.”

“Pancho? Franz?” a voice from the past greeted them as they stepped over the threshold into the air-cooled store.

“Is that you, Suzie?” Pancho asked.

“Who’d you expect, sweetheart? The Easter bunny? You two simply left, never even kissed me goodbye. I’ve missed the two of you. Since you disappeared, I’ve had no one with whom to discuss Bergson, and I hope you’ve written some poems. I’ve missed your reading them to me while I prepared your hot pastrami sandwiches.”

Leaving the supermarket, sipping their Perriers through plastic straws Suzie complemented them, Pancho turned to Franz.

“Would you like to visit the university, Franz? I’m curious and a little homesick.”

Through the park, sidestepping French-fries cartons and empty soda cans, they came to the university’s admissions entrance.

“Shall we?” Pancho asked, and the two friends skedaddled up the steps to the front door. When they entered the admissions office, who was there but their old acquaintance from their graduate days, Timothy Eversharp.

“Well, well, look who’s here,” Timothy said. “What brings the two of you back? I know, you don’t have to tell me. You’ve decided to complete your graduate program.

Welcome back, boys,” and Timothy Eversharp first slapped Pancho on the back, then slapped Franz on his back. “It’s been a long time, too long. I’ve missed the two of you.”

On leaving Timothy Eversharp and the admissions office — having re-enrolled in the graduate studies program — Pancho turned to Franz on the sidewalk in front of the university building. He looked at Franz, and Franz looked at Pancho. A look came over Pancho’s face. It was as though a light bulb had been turned on inside his skull. His face simply glowed. Franz feared for his friend; he couldn’t grasp what was happening.

Slowly ... Pancho raised his arm, and pointed beyond, encompassing all of
Main Street.

“Here ... here it is.”

“What? What, Pancho?”

“The answer ... the answer to our quest. What we have been searching for the world over. We have found the answer. It’s right here. It’s always been here. Why hadn’t we seen it before?”

Franz looked at his friend, and then slowly ... raising his eyes, followed the line of Pancho’s outstretched arm ... until his eyes saw what Pancho saw:

Main Street and the town where they had met years before.

“Shall we pay a visit to the real estate agency and see if they have a subdivide for rent?” Franz asked.

“I believe that here, in the Midwest, they live in apartments,” Pancho speculated, and arm in-arm, the two friends commenced their stroll to the real estate office.