High Times at City Hall

Honest Like Bill Clinton

“I do not use crack cocaine, nor am I an addict of crack cocaine.” I've practiced this line in front of my mirror so I can say it with a straight face. My Bill Clinton lie that’s not a lie.

I speak into the microphones, look squarely at each camera so they can broadcast this to voters across Toronto. I ignore the reporters who shout, Mayor Ford, have you ever smoked crack cocaine?

This is exactly the kind of slick politics I came to City Hall to clean up. And now here I stand, projectile vomiting bullshit that yeah, fine, maybe it's true. But it's misleading and I know it. Which makes me no better than commie hypocrites like Adam Vaughan and Olivia Chow and their team of tax-and-spend-and-tax-again whores.

But I’m doing it all for the taxpayers. I tell myself that as I read the rest of the speech Dave and Dougie worked on with my lawyer.

When I’m done, Dave leads me out of the press conference while Dougie stays to field more questions. Best big brother ever; has my back to the bitter end.

“You did good,” Dave tells me in the hall.

“I nearly motherfucking lost it at the part about Don Bosco. When I had to say out loud I wasn't coaching high school football anymore.”

“We’ll get you that job back. One play at a time, right?” He grins at me. He’ll always be my coach.

But I can’t let it go. “I don’t give a shit if people I’ve never met hate my guts, if sanctimonious nobodies feel the need to make me their scapegoat. But Don Bosco? Who the fuck are school administrators to judge me without evidence? I was making a goddamn difference in those kids’ lives.”

“You will again. First, your personal trainer. You got that appointment in forty minutes.”

“I know, I know. I’m going.” I press the elevator button for the secure parking garage.

I’m ready to climb into my Escalade, drive to the gym and spend an hour getting ordered around by some fag in spandex before I go home to Renata’s low-fat family dinner. Boneless skinless tasteless chicken with a side of green things I’ve never heard of. And no booze. I mean, I knew I was going to hell; I just never knew how soon.

But leaning against the driver’s side door is a curvy brunette with a grin on her face.

That fucking Robyn Doolittle. I don’t know how she got in here, but I got other things to care about.

“You ever think about becoming Robyn Do Something?” I make a shooing motion to clear her away from my door so I can get in.

She stays put. “I am doing something. Something I’m very proud of. Taking you down.” She smiles her smug little grin. Her I’m so hip, I live in Parkdale and play on Twitter all day grin.

“You think stopping government is doing something? It’s not. It’s being a roadblock. You’re not even Robyn Do Little. You’re Robyn Do Nothing.”

She shrugs. “Whatever you have to tell yourself.”

“Are you here to sell me something?”

“No, I don’t carry crack around. I’m here to ask for your resignation.”

“Oh.” I put a finger to my chin. “I’m thinking about this. Really I am. Wait…wait…I have my answer. No.”

“This video will royally screw you.”

“My resignation would royally screw the city. Now get the fuck away from my vehicle before I call security.”

“I’m serious. My bosses at the Star won’t give a drug dealer money, but Gawker started a fund to buy the video. People are donating. They want to see it.”

“Yippee skippy.” I twirl my finger in the air. It’s been a week and still no luck, but pretty sure Sandro and his guys will get that video out of the wrong hands before Gawker can. “You ever get bullied at school?”

“No.” She sneers. She probably was the bully.

“I did. Couldn’t walk down the hall without hearing Fat Ford at least three times. Know what my mom said?”

“Obviously not.” But I can see in her eyes I have her interest.

“Let them talk, Robbie, she told me as my tears dried over a tub of Chapman’s Rocky Road. Let them waste their time and energy on you. You’re like your father. You’re going to do things while they stand on the sidelines and comment.”

Do Nothing rolls her eyes. “What do you want me to say? I’m sorry you got bullied?”

“No. Just friendly advice that you should rethink your profession. Before you’re eighty years old and realize too late that you haven’t saved taxpayers money, you haven't made Toronto a more welcoming place for small businesses to employ local workers, you haven't done a goddamn thing except comment on what other people do.”

I flick my eyes up and down her body, linger a few seconds each on her tits and her crotch. I lick my lips. Partly because she’s cute, but more to piss her off so she’ll get the hell out of my way.

Her little fists clench by her side.

“You should get a job as a hooker,” I tell her. “I’d say porn star but you’re not that hot. Still, you could use what God gave you to add value to the world.”

“You should get a job as a human shield,” she says. “In your neighbourhood, that would be one-time use only, but who cares?”

In the movie version, this kind of tension would lead us to hook up in the end. In the real life version, we hate each other’s guts too much.

“Get the fuck away from my vehicle before I call security.”

“Why don’t you shove me?” Her eyebrows flicker up. She wants me to.

“Why? You got a cameraman hiding between some cars?”

Of course she does. Some guy in black jeans who helped her break into the garage is recording all this on his cell phone, waiting for me to get violent so he can blast the footage on thestar.com.

I’d like to smack her. I’d like to find Mr. Black Jeans and drag him from his hiding place, knock a couple teeth from his metrosexual smirk. But I’m on a mission now: I’m gonna lose some weight, smile nicer for the cameras, and win back all the respect I lost and then some. Everyone loves a good comeback story. 

I pull out my phone to call my receptionist. “Hey buddy, can you send security to the parking garage. A mosquito got in, won’t let me climb into my car. Tell him to bring cuffs. I want this girl arrested.”

She snorts. “It’s not illegal to bypass security. But good one.”

A door opens in the garage. Two security guards walk toward us.

Do Nothing bolts, and a guy in jeans—blue, not black, but close enough—follows close behind her.

I smile at the guys. “I owe you each a case of beer.”

“It’s our job, sir.” They nod at me. Always official.

But I’ll get them their two-fours. Politics is a team sport. I may be suspended as a coach, but I still know how to appreciate my players.