On both sides of the equator, no one can say that Orlando was ever in any real danger beyond his own ailments. “He’s doing just fine actually.”Īccording to several of Orlando’s friends and colleagues from Philadelphia, Orlando occasionally spoke of people who were after him and his family. “Well, he’s not dead,” his cousin, Julia Veronica Cruz Rojas, wrote to me. They all say that Orlando is living safely with his family in Copiapó. My memory is all fucked up,” he told me.Īccording to several of Orlando’s friends and relatives from Chile, his illness was a reality, but none can vouch for his kidnapping or the obituary email that was sent. As we exchanged messages about his disappearance, he told me he had been kidnapped for reasons he couldn’t mention and that he had indeed fallen into a coma back in 2005. I recently contacted Orlando to let him know I was writing about his reemergence among dozens of friends and colleagues who believed he was dead. But none of us have seen him since his falsified death. He’s even doing concerts in South America, according to his status updates. I’m sure I did too.Īfter that night, random calls, emails, and Facebook requests gradually confirmed what Mike had told me. In his message he told Mike that he was hiding out in Brazil, and asked that he avoid trying to contact him because it wasn’t safe.Įven though he had already heard the news, Brian looked completely stunned. Mike had received a cryptic voice message from Orlando that week. “I’ll tell him,” Mike replied as he anxiously pulled on his cigarette. “Can I tell him?” Brian asked Mike in a hushed voice. I found out in the summer of 2008, while Mike and I were visiting Brian’s parents in New Jersey. Then, nearly three years after the news of his death, I got the real news: Orlando wasn’t dead. No one outwardly mentioned his absence, but the feeling hung over us like a broken light fixture until we finally walked out - with Mike and Brian for days after.
#Eminem slim shady ep sandbox automatic tv
The feeling shared by everyone was permanent loss.Īt a dimly lit bar in Queens a year later, Mike, Brian and I touched glasses to memories of Orlando at his best: a lovable weirdo who once claimed “Who’s the Boss?” was the best TV show ever. Some told stories and showed videos of Orlando in his most candid moments. So a few weeks after the news of his death, 50 or so of Orlando’s friends, colleagues and former professors held a memorial service for him at Drexel University. Other friends who had received similar emails sent replies to the sender as well, but without any luck.Įveryone wanted the chance to say goodbye, or at least find closure in the sudden loss of a close companion.
Mike repeatedly called his phone and sent replies to the email, but he never received a response. What intensified that feeling was that no one knew whom to reach out to in order to find out more about Orlando’s death. Seeing my closest friends lose their closest friend simply hurt.
They had all gone to the same college, shared an apartment in West Philadelphia, and spent most of their time together making music and trading bizarre stories.įor me, hearing about the loss of a talented musician who treated friends and strangers with equal sincerity left an indescribable feeling between frustration and sorrow. The two of them had been much closer to Orlando than I. She also mentioned that he had left behind an apartment in Rio de Janeiro for Mike and our friend Brian to share. “Orlando is buried in ‘Cementerio do Sao Paulo’ under the grave of Orlando Batista Dariabolo.” “I know you were a good friend to him and we all thank you for that, he told me those were his best years of his life,” her message read.
The sender had written that she was able to speak to Orlando the night before he passed away. I knew words wouldn’t help, so I asked him if I could read the email. I didn’t know what to say to Mike at the time though. The sudden news explained why Orlando had mysteriously disappeared that summer - a question that had remained in the back of my mind ever since.Īll I really knew about his past was that he came from Chile and grew up playing the drums. He had just received an email from Orlando’s manager and close friend in Chile, which had been sent from Orlando’s account. In that awkwardly fixed tone, Mike told me that Orlando had died of a brain aneurysm the previous morning after spending six days in a coma. We were standing in our narrow hallway in Flatbush, Brooklyn, and I could sense his effort to keep his voice steady. On a cool October night in 2005, my close friend Mike told me that our friend Orlando was dead.