Louis was the park caretaker. Around 24 years old, French, handsome, rugged, enthusiastic.
Exacting.
A sixties version of Mark Wahlberg.
You could meet Louis one time in your life, and if he didn't see you for the next fifteen years, then suddenly came face to face with you, say, at Tim Horton's coffee shop, he'd grab you, slap you on the back, haul out his wallet, produce shiny wrinkled photos and want to know every detail of your life since you crossed his care-taking park on your way to high school.
That was Louis. You couldn't just hi and bye Louis.
Louis worked for the city of Dorval, and was military punctual and orderly in his work.
Arriving at 7:30 on the dot, five days a week, he'd commence to mowing the park, carefully snipping each misplaced branch or weed in sight. Louis treated his park like the Queen's living room.
In the afternoons, he would haul a can of whitewash and prepare to mark the baseball court. To him, this was an art.
No one could make such straight lines as Louis. It took him many hours to square off that baseball court, place the base bags down and rough up home plate. I can still see him standing hands splayed behind the backstop, pondering his next task.
When we were in high school, my friends and I would take short cuts across the park to take the bus. Louis had a crush on me, and I was very shy.
I used to tip toe through that park, hoping like heck, that Louis wouldn't be around, because if he did happen to spot me, he would run over and start the whole
"how are you doing," and I'd end up missing my bus!
I tried to avoid Louis as much as possible, but there was no invisible way of getting to my bus stop.
Sometimes I pretended that if I could make it across the park without being sidelined by Louis, I could do anything.
But Louis just wanted friends. He spent his whole day working outside while we sat in square box classrooms, learning math, French, Science and Geography.
Louis was learning the same things, but, on his own, in the park.
Louis had dropped out of school at 16 to work in his father's village pool hall,but, once the 60's hit, nobody was playing pool, so the place closed, and Louis got a good job with the city.
Louis knew his domain inside out. For instance, there was an underground cement pipe that ran straight across the park, like an equator line. That's where young hooligans hid after lighting firecrackers or tormenting seniors.
The cops would show up.."where are those little peefarts?"
Louis would shrug and look skyward.
He kept good secrets.
Louis was a walking GPS. Sometimes I'd try to avoid him in the morning, as I wasn't in the mood for a chat, so I'd attempt to slip through the woods like a fox.
But every single time, Louis would stick his head out between some wild blackberry bush and go "Hey R, how is your mother, brother, sister.."
Louis must have made himself a mirror front vow to greet me no matter what, even if he had to race across the park and throw me a wave, as my bus pulled up.
Louis took great pains to show me his face.
One day I stopped to meet my friend before heading across the park. Her parents had relatives visiting from the United States..
As we were moving out the door for school, I blurted:
"Oh God, we're late, and we still have to cross the park."
"How am I gonna get past Louis?"
The guests found my comment hilarious.
From then on, "Getting Past Louis" became the buzz line.
"That was a killer geometry exam."
"No kidding. It was harder than "getting past Louis."
I stopped for a coffee at Tim Hortons last week. There, in a corner, sipping a tall cup of joe, sat Louis. We hadn't seen each other for 50 years.
We recognized each other the way we did back then, chatting over coffee, photos of his children and grandchildren.
Louis wanted me to know that in all the years of his working in the park, many women wanted to be his girlfriend, but he said no. Some of them were married, even.
So Louis said.
He eventually was made a foreman, and was respected for his hard work.
Louis is retired, good pension, works part time bagging groceries, just to keep busy.
And he bowls off island with a bunch of retired city guys.
"Do you ever play bowling?" He looked me in the eye. It was the old Louis. I said "no, not even."
Louis lives a four park distance from me as the crow flies. Fifteen minutes by car, in a house he renovated, basement up.
As we shook hands, and I got up to leave, I pictured myself running across the Kismet Park, running for the school bus, running to get past Louis.
And there was Louis still in the park, putting down straight white clean lines, pausing to wave at me and my high school friends.
