Soft snow is slowly falling to the ground, covering the center of the city with a down blanket and muting the sound of traffic where I am playing mini-golf with a charming fellow named Laurent. We are both bundled up against the elements: he is wearing a long blue down jacket with the hood pulled over his purple-tuque covered head while I am wearing black from head to toe except for my salmon tinted hat and scarf. I have come to the disturbing realization that my bomber jacket makes me look like a cuter version of the Michellin Man and my ego has been only slightly affected by this. My uncovered hands are freezing and I am not sure why I have not brought gloves or mittens.
There is a buzz of activity around us; various people are walking by, some partaking in the activities, others merely passing through. Security is discretely milling around, making sure nothing gets out of hand, and some of the participants are huddled around the two metallic camp-fires that are making the air smell as though we are in the middle of a campground rather than in the heart of Montreal.
Laurent and I take turns passing each other the putter so as to hit the ball - a lot is at stake and it has become quite a serious game. Laurent, his green eyes sparkling, has told me that if I lose he will take me out on the weekend. Of course, I have responded that he will be seeing me all of this weekend no matter what the outcome of our game might be because I am volunteering for this event organized to help individuals like Laurent who have no homes. So, I play along, not seeing the harm because we both know that this is a joke.
I have thus far won both holes and Laurent seems to be feeling less confident than when we had started the game.
We get to the last hole and I am holding Laurent's coffee while he plays - it is a very tricky hole because there is a wooden block that you must hit dead center in order to get the ball anywhere close to the objective. As I approach it, I am thinking that there is no way I am going to get this under four strokes. Laurent, the gentleman that he is, allows me to go first. I drop my ball in the center, wiggle my hips theatrically and take a swing, closing my eyes so as not to witness my horrible shot - I hear a distinct TOCK - my eyes snap open to see that the ball did in fact hit the block right in the middle where it was supposed to and it is spinning towards the hole... but it misses by a fraction of an inch. I easily tap the ball in and then dance around screaming and hooting as though I have just won a million dollars and not a simple golf game.
Laurent looks worried now as he places his ball square in the middle of the field. He swings, hits the ball and it goes flying behind the block... so he has lost.
He turns towards me with a sheepish grin on his bearded face and informs me that I have won. I congratulate him on his valiant effort as he takes my ungloved hand in his covered one and brings it to his mouth. His gray and white whiskers tickle and scratch the top of my freezing hand as he plants a gentlemanly kiss. He tells me while still holding my extended hand that he is disappointed that he has lost, but that he can still take me out this weekend. I gently decline, take my hand back and smile at him while thinking that in his situation, a date is perhaps one of the last things he might need after the basic necessities of food, shelter and clothing. But are we not, all of us, whether we are living in mansions or living on the streets, looking for love and acceptance anywhere we can? And though I cannot give him that kind of love, what I do have to offer him, which I do with all of my heart, is basic human love and contact.
A short but pleasant time spent playing mini-golf on a snowy day in the middle of downtown is what I was able to offer this man and his smile, laughter and gallantry was more than enough to repay the little effort it took from me.
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