High Times at City Hall

Basically, You're Maggots

“Bunch of maggots.” I chuckle.

I like it in this studio. CFRB 1010. I used to listen to this station with my dad. He’d drive along in his suit and tie and treat me like a man. Even at five years old, Little Doug’s age, we’d listen to the important folks talk about Toronto news, then we’d discuss it. Any time I complained about a decision someone made, like if Harold Ballard made a trade I thought was crap, he’d ask me, “Son, if you were running this show, what would you do different?”

And here I am now with my own show—both literally, on the radio, and as mayor of my own city. I even got my brother at my side. God, I wish my dad was in his car right now, could listen to me tell Toronto how I’m gonna save them money, bring accountability back to city hall.

We’re talking about the press, of course.

“Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have said that, but anyways…” I chuckle again.

My stomach grumbles so loud I’m surprised the mic doesn’t pick up its moaning. All Renata would give me this morning was a coffee and some hippie protein shake. I’m supposed to lose some weight, enough so by election time, whether this crack video surfaces or not, I can show voters a brand new me, Comeback King Ford. I tried to sneak a bowl of Count Chocula when Renata was in the shower, but Steffie and Little Doug barricaded the cereal cupboard, side by side, hands on hips. Then we got into a tickle fight and I forgot about food until it was time to leave the house.

On air, me and Dougie shoot the shit about restaurants, family stuff. The plan is to invite listeners into our private lives, make ‘em feel like they know us. Then we bring it back to the point: I want to cut back council from 44 to 22 members.

Dougie explains it real simple, “If you had half the amount of people, there’s half the amount of reports, there’s millions of dollars of efficiencies that can be had…But again, like I say, when we bring this to a vote, watch the people who vote, folks. It’s like asking the turkeys to vote for Thanksgiving.”

I snort, because I don’t know what’s more civilized: city council or a bunch of turkeys.

Of course council won't pass a bill to slash itself in half. Most councillors aren't employable in the real world. Not for a hundred grand plus expenses, that’s for damn sure. But not my problem. Let Adam Vaughan line up at the food bank like everyone else who can’t cut it in the workforce. Let him make his constipated face at the girl in the soup kitchen who ain’t servin’ steak tartare on the taxpayer’s dime. Hell, I’ll volunteer that day, ladle up his mystery meat stew myself.

I look at the script. Next up is Don Bosco Catholic Secondary School.

“I still haven’t got a call,” I say. “Nobody’s actually called me. But I’ve heard through the media that I’m not coaching Don Bosco anymore, and it’s sad.” I hear a tremor in my voice. I feel it too—I could turn into Niagara Falls any second. Those kids were like my own kids. I wanted to help them do well in football so they could go on and do well in life. Same like my coach did for me. The only thing worse would have been to hear on the radio that my wife was taking my kids to Australia or somewhere I’d only see them once a year. Which thank god she isn’t. I haven’t been the best husband, but I got the best damn wife in the world.

I end the Don Bosco segment with the truth. “I just want them to play football and win the championship.”

I gotta leave early today, go to Steffie’s communion thing. I also gotta find a Timmy’s on the way, grab a few jelly donuts to tide me over until dinner. And I need an LCBO. I’m supposed to drink less for my new health regime, but fuck that. I’m already drinking protein shakes. One step at a time. A mickey of vodka’s only what? 13 ounces. I could knock that back on the way home and no one would be the wiser.

I drive up the ramp out of the CFRB parking garage. Of course there are reporters, cameras. They’re so cute and hip. So cutting-edge. So urban. Translation: they’re pinkos who will never vote for me, so why the fuck would I talk to them?

But I’m in a good mood, so I roll down my window. Why not have a little fun?

The open window gets rushed with fuzzy microphones. A bunch of questions that start with “Mayor Ford” and include the word “crack” in them.

Then one person, a chubby little blonde who looks kinder than the rest, asks the right question.

“Mayor Ford, is it true that in your radio show just now, you called the press a bunch of maggots?” She doesn’t have a camera or a mic. Just a pen and paper.

“Damn right,” I say. I talk slow so she can write this down. “I used to call you guys mosquitoes. Mostly because I heard paparazzi was derived from an old Sicilian world for a super-sized mosquito. But this week, you lot have hit a new low. Mosquitoes only want to buzz around and peck you, take a tiny drop of blood from you at a time. Maggots, on the other hand? Maggots want your corpse.”