Not The Garb Age

Arrived back in Toronto, having trod the primrose path of dalliance in France, as well as being booted out of Turin. My son Mark was visiting, he who delights in hurtling down fearsome icy slopes on two sticks. The Vancouver Olympics loom, and he had persuaded Irving to give him some physical training suited to skiing. Since Irving works with me on training related to a somewhat different purpose, but still hard physical activity, I wondered whether Mark knew what he was getting himself into. Perhaps Irving will knock some sense into him. Or maybe break a leg -- that would do for the Olympics, and he would be safe. So go the musings of a mother.

Mark did raise a question, however, and one that demanded some thought.

"Ma, how come there's a garbage strike in Toronto? The Mayor is, or so everyone says, slightly to the left of Lenin, and is usually best buds with his union pals. But this time he's holding fast. So how come?"

How come indeed. And it was ironic that the point I had made in Turin, that a strike should only involve two parties, not an innocent third, was occurring right on my doorstep. Not that the Manor was affected -- owing to some excellent legislative grandfathering, the Manor was in an area of the city that still used transparent tendering and commercial pickup, saving millions in the process. But I digress.

Mark's question was well taken. The thing didn't make sense. I poured a serious Laphroaig, and pondered, using the key analytical question that is always germane -- who benefits?

At first glance, no one: neither the union, nor the Mayor (who was taking considerable electoral heat) and certainly not the benighted taxpayers. I was momentarily at a loss, and decided to call in some help.

The help came from my friend/enemy Don Guido, who knew a thing or two about waste management.

"Ah, bella," he said in gutteral tones, "how goes la dolce vita? Perhaps you and I --"

"Will keep things as they are," I said crisply. (You have to be careful with Guido). "What's this garbage strike all about?"

"You buying that acreage in Caledon for sugar beets?"

This change of subject was not unexpected. If Guido was going to give me something, he was going to get something in return. Altruism and Guido were unknown in combination.

"I might if the price is right."

"I will see that it is," he replied. "As for the garbage nonsense, I have nothing to do with it. They're not my people, and anyway, I would have handled it--ah -- quite differently."

"I don't doubt that for a minute," I replied. "But what's really going on?'

There was a pause, and then he said "Streetcars."

"Streetcars? What the hell do --"

"Aspet, signora, aspet. I've given you enough. And the price for the land will be fair. Ciao."

And that was that.

I sat back, sipped, and thought. I then rummaged through some files, made some further calls, and managed to crack the mystery.

Toronto, via the Mayor, had agreed to purchase a goodly number of new streetcars from Bombardier, signed the contract, and everything would be fine save for one thing. Toronto didn't have the money. The Mayor had put in some, the Province more, and the Feds -- nothing. (I should mention that the current Conservative federal government hasn't managed to elect a member from Toronto in years -- why would they be keen on supporting the city in anything?)
But the Mayor, insanely, had thought that the Tories would be all embarrassed and cough up the dough.

The Tories decided to be embarrassed.

So a monetary shortfall had to be met, or the Mayor, along with his inner cabal, could find themselves in a nasty court fight, one that would appal the electorate. To top it all off, an election was due in 2010. The answer was to save money that would normally go to garbage collection. If the strike could be made to last until mid-to-late August, the shortfall could be greatly eased, if not erased entirely. Such are politics today.

I had thought originally that the Mayor was being frighted by false fires. Not so.

This time the fires are real.