Mr. UnGoogle-able

No computer bug was going to catch me unprepared. As the Y2K crossover hour drew near, I knew I'd done all I could. The case of garbanzo beans stashed under my bed, the three sets of flashlight batteries, the $500 cash in the desk, the plan to join a mob of fellow Chicagoans along the frozen lakefront for midnight fireworks (or shared gobsmacking as Burnham skyscrapers go black and crumple), yes, I'd done the best that I could under these strange circumstances. 

And I would not be alone. I would hug and kiss someone special no matter what happened. 

He would toss back his grey Jew-bro, and laugh his hoarse, grizzled laugh – product of far too many Marlboros and cognacs. He'd make cynical asides. He'd scream it was entirely too cold and entirely too herd-minded to be outside in the first place. He'd rush back in and taunt my basset hound, to their mutual delight. And he'd take me to bed. 

Not a bad night.  One of 100 or so we had together. He was a significant other. 

So why do I not know if this man is alive or dead today? 

I have zero desire to rekindle a romance or even a friendship with him. But I have a nagging need to find out if he still walks the earth. Two other significant others died within the past three years. One death was well known; one accidently discovered via a related (but not direct) Google search. A similar search will not yield information on this man. 

His name is similar to a Hollywood actor. He would never be on Facebook or participate any self-promotional tripe. Others have written of his work, but many reviews are over 10 years old.  He is unGoogle-able.  A situation that the Mr. Greene I knew in 2000 would have found most satisfying.