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"Everything that a Bostonian touched was sticky." - Edward Park, Boston Globe
PART 1: TANKS, BUT NO TANKS
"A little dry this time, Gus", Patrick thought to himself as he stepped off of the curb, taking a second bite of the sandwich he'd habitually bought for lunch that chilly, early afternoon in January of 1919.
He looked back toward the shop and shook his head. "Could've put a little more sauce on it, chum."
It was just then, throat-sanding hoagie pressed to his salty lips, that Patrick Breen turned around in time to meet the universe, speeding to his rescue with a 25 foot high wave of irony, in the form of a wall of molasses doing 35 miles per hour. The remainder of his sandwich went uneaten.
And so it was, that on a not-so-hot day in Beantown, the Great Boston Molassacre was brought into this world and let out its natal scream.
For those unfamiliar with the details of the Molassacre, here are the sticking points:
Approximately 2.3 million gallons of molasses were being stored in a leaky storage tank, awaiting processing into alcohol, by the United States Industrial Alcohol Company.
The poorly constructed tank, strained to its limits by the demands of being both a container and a sieve, finally popped its rivets and dropped what could be described as the world's largest, runniest deuce.
As a result, a wave of black treacle covered the North End of Boston like a short stack of flapjacks, killing 21 people and injuring over 150. Dozens of horses and wagons alike were glued to the streets, in what Guinness officials later confirmed as Planet Earth's most massive roach motel. No butter was involved.
The viscous goo blanketed the area, destroying an elevated train track and sparking a brief buying frenzy among the panicked population of regional alcoholics and masseuses.
(Historical footnote: The Great Molassacre inspired a relatively obscure ragtime tune that year, which wouldn't find it's stride until the band Def Leppard covered it some 70 years later. If you guessed "Pour Some Sugar On Me", give yourself a gold star..)
While most of the details of the Boston Molasses Disaster are a matter of public record, one aftermath of the tragedy which had been swept under the historical rug (until now)..was the Molasses Lockdown of 1919. What follows are the details of that story, cobbled together over the course of 3 and a half decades, using whatever bits and pieces could be gleaned. You're welcome.
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PART 2: TREACLE DOWN THEORY
Immediately following the North End's molasses-inspired remodel, the town leapt to the cause of returning their Olde Towne to its former blackstrapless glory.
Predictably, those first responding to the Treacle River Incident found themselves, after a day of pulling candy-covered people from the mess, irrevocably tacky (or in some cases, simply tackier than before.) What started as a localized mess, soon began to wrap its viscid tendrils throughout the city, one foot, hand, butt and back print at a time.
While most couldn't help but notice the gluey darkness enveloping Boston over the following weeks, one incident in particular can be singled out as the genesis of the lockdowns which followed; with one person in particular named progenitor: Calvin Plimpton Snidely Hobson III.
Calvin "PS3" Hobson was an unlikely historical figure. "Nondescript" is too fancy a word to describe him. "Bland" fits him better, but dispenses with some of the nuances. Calvin Hobson had the appearance of a 1950s gelatin dish at a potluck, plunked tightly between two casseroles: a jiggly, pink mound of questionable origins, with the off-putting aroma of tomatoes in orange juice. Add to that a penguin's armspan, a friar's hairline and the distinct odor of an unbathed body part, and you'd have a passable description of Mr. Hobson.
The incident in question happened on a Thursday at the Common. Mr.Hobson, being engaged in his usual craft of idly lazing the day away, found himself exhausted after a long afternoon counting the return on his investments. It was while seeking relief on a nearby park bench, that Mr.Hobson's (and soon Boston's) troubles arose.
You see, Mr. Hobson's trousers that day were white. A snazzy ultra bright white, that would've looked good on anyone else, on any day you like. Calvin's gall-like figure mocked them. This effect was only magnified, when he stood up and walked away an hour later, blackstrap stripes griddle-marking his ample tuchus. (It must be noted here, that if anyone looked better in dark and white striped pants than they did without them, it was Calvin Hobson, who'd inexplicably managed to avoid an entire black and white striped ensemble, complete with leg shackle and ball, for over 2 decades.)
It wasn't until many hours (and titters from passersby) later, that the damage to his retina-searingly white pants (and the ego residing in them) became known to Mr.Hobson, when he happened to sit on a yellow leather settee and left a brown-striped yellow settee behind in its place.
"What the..!"
If there's one thing Calvin Plimpton Snidely Hobson III had little of, it was patience for the unexpected. With the unexpected often came the unknown, and the unknown meant dealing with risk. Risk wasn't a game Mr.Hobson wanted to have anything to do with. He preferred a sure thing. And so it was that Ol' "PS3" Hobson also happened to be very well connected.
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PART 3: SLOWING THE SPREAD
The initial meeting of the City Council to address the problem of Beantown's recent crowning as "America's Stickiest City" began with a brief introduction by Francis JW Ford, the council president:
"Distinguished colleagues. It is with great sorrow that I've called you all here today. This beloved Olde Towne has been flooded with molasses and it's beginning to spread to all corners of our fair city! Certainly, we must continue to aid those affected by the tragedy, but at the same time, we need to slow the spread of this mess so that our city workers aren't overwhelmed by the challenges of clean up!
And so today, I ask that we all work together, not only to find a safe and effective way to de-stickify our city, but also to protect those people and properties that are most vulnerable to the damaging effects of this brown menace. Again, I cannot stress enough that we NEED to SLOW the SPREAD!"
With that, Mr. Ford took his seat, and Councilman James Moriarty stood to address the assemblage.
"Has anyone tried spilling a lot of beans yet?"
"Excuse me?"
"Beans. Has anyone tried spilling beans on the molasses? It seems to me that the easiest way to fix this mess would be to spill a large tanker of beans into the streets, shut down the restaurants and grocery stores, then watch the hungry peasants clean up the mess. Am I wrong? It just seems like a straightforward way to save the budget for more important things and still solve the problem."
A murmur of approval rippled up and down the dias. Mr. Ford briefly responded:
"This is a wonderful idea, and you aren't the first to bring it up, Jim. Unfortunately, we don't have enough beans on hand. We've had people trying for days to source enough for the project and unfortunately, the timing couldn't be worse, what with National Bean Day the week before last, and the Franklin County Fart Festival just behind us. Great thinking, though. Anyone else?"
Councilman Henry E. Hagan (known informally as "Heh" or "the Kekster"), stood to address the council:
"Well, couldn't we just lock the peasants down any way? They're the ones causing most of the mess. Besides, I never go to the North End. Do any of you?"
Once again, a buzz moved up and down the table. One by one the councilmen agreed that they hardly EVER had any business in the North End, not even the district's councilman.
"That's my district and I don't even go there unless I have to. It's disgusting and the people are illiterate, dirty vermin. I'd back a measure to lock them down. Shall we put it to a vote?"
Councilman Ford interrupted.
"Gentlemen, this is all well and good, but we can't just lock them down."
A third wave of quiet discussion moved through the council members. Councilman Lane spoke up. "Why not, Mr. Ford?"
The council president grinned.
"Well, I mean, of course we COULD just lock them down with no explanation, but it'll be a lot easier if we have a good story to tell them. They're suckers for a good story."
The councilmen mostly nodded their heads in agreement, so Mr.Lane continued.
"Ok, how about if we tell them that we're developing a new cleaning agent that will make the clean up safe and efficient, but that we need them to stay put until it's developed? Tell them we're all working together to slow the spread of this mess. They always like that 'working together' nonsense."
The entire council laughed like pack of horny hyenas screwing each other next to a half eaten wildebeest carcass.
"It'll be a piece of cake. I know just the guy to call to start developing the cleaning solution. Stock tip: buy the same stocks I do."
At this, Mr.Lane grinned, and once again an almost tangible chorus of amusement oozed through the air, like freshly hocked phlegm..with googly eyes.
"Shall we vote on it?"
Councilman Ford immediately called for a vote, and just as quickly, the meeting was over. The results were unanimous.
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