When hope begins to fade.

This morning, Manuel was on my mind. It has now been some four long years since the last time I was able to contact Manuel (real first name, I’ll hold the last name…). Last time, as it usually went, I sent a Skype message to him and, within 3 days, he would call back, send a message or communicate.

That last conversation came in late morning for me, late at night for him. He was then in Vietnam, still pursuing the impossible dream and working in an environment that raised the hackles in the back of my head. He made it a happy call, telling me about his then-current purpose and showing me around (virtually, of course) the place where he lived and worked.

This was a multi-room apartment shared with a good number of people who, I must assume, were pursuing similar purposes. This is -from my own past experiences- a highly volatile and frustrating environment, where a phone call can trigger any number of probabilities. Most of them harsh and explosive.

We talked for a while, and he told me about the deal he was about to close. He was so sure… but then, he had always been sure about all the other past possibilities that had already eluded his best efforts.

Manuel has been a part of these written memories, on and off the books. Yet, I have never expressed myself about him with the finality that I now feel. Four years is a long time; many attempts to contact have been made and always with the same response: “this user has not been active in the last …” I kept my hopes up, thinking that maybe he was in one of those impossible to contact places, or any other reasonable (and some not so) excuse I could come up with.

We met late in ’99, when I was in the process of becoming somewhat desperate in my pursuits. Nothing seemed to be going anywhere, and my money was running out.

In truth, it had run out.

I was on the brink of giving up (looking back, the best that could have happened to me), but all existing, created interests wanted to go on, and I was in the picture. The call went out. “We need a place where he (that’s me) can stay in NYC.” … “He can’t leave now.”

That’s where Manuel came in. He was living in a small one-bedroom apartment on the third floor of a mid-Manhattan building. West side, upper 40’s. He was then in his early forties, born in Portugal, bound to the world. He is -I suppose I should say “was”, but it is still difficult to think in those terms- short in stature, but great in heart, culture, and dreams. A bank officer in Portugal spoke 4 languages and loved a good glass of wine. Enough credentials for me.

We hit it off. I, living on the couch, he in the bedroom.

We became friends. Like my other friendship with Ronaldo (also an important part of these memories), this relationship was forged in moments of need. Moments when we had to pool our resources to manage some fine dining on NY pizza and wine. Walks out and around Manhattan, just to get away from all, including the small apartment. Moments of talking about the dreams we shared, and what we could do afterwards with the funds that would come in.

Funny enough. These projections never involved mansions, fast cars, or a spending-crazy life. We both agreed that a good portion of whatever came in -if it ever did- had to go into a foundation to help people in need of a second chance, those suffering from expensive illnesses, and abandoned children.

We shared this life for some 5 months. Met Maria, his friend-girlfriend, a lovely lady, and a schoolteacher in the NY system.

There were very difficult moments for both of us. His children were in Europe, and my family in Miami. And none were well.

When I finally left, going into Europe and the continuing pursuit of this elusive dream, we parted as brothers. And maintained an at-distance relationship for the next 12 years, where we communicated at least once a month. There were a couple of other projects we collaborated on, and one looked like a real winner. We went as far as having capital committed to it. That one failed, not because it was impossible, or through a fault on his part. Political greed became involved, and all else went by the wayside.

But now, it seems that an end must be accepted. Like other friends who came into my life through those crazy years of hoping, dreaming, frustration, pain, and eventual disillusionment, we understood what these hopes and dreams had taken from us. We knew, without saying so, that we could count on the other person, no questions asked.

It seems like I am the only one left of that group of crazy dreamers. Manuel, Nuno, Ronaldo, Marco … You are now a part of my life, and all I can do is not forget.

To each and to all of us … a glass of wine and a memory.