When the moon collides with the sun, Swiss cheese will rain down in Dorchester Bay to be washed up in man-sized chunks on Savin Hill Beach, Malibu Beach, Tenean Beach, and up the mouth of the Neponset River. The discombobulated chunks of cheese will be sliced into layers for spukies 'n' pizza. The price for submarine sandwiches will drop like a stone tossed off the shore of Victory Park.
An old Dorchester myth-story: some day the moon will hit the sun a little after mid-day when the fog is thick and dull. When that happens Beacon Hill will collapse, one side into the Charles River and the other side in a mudslide slurry race down Milk Street to bury the aquarium. Dorchester, of course, will emerge from the cataclysm unscathed, as it usually does from events beyond its control.
Everything stays the same in Dorchester, Mass, the 'Sick Man of Boston.' Ague and catarrh don't bother this part of town one bit. It is used to aches and grippe and gout. It gets along okay with neither a limp nor a hiccup. It will take more than a solar collision to shut this old town down for good eternity. People have lived in Dorchester since time immemorial. They've made a good run of it too. They'll continue their track record until history's end. The sun shines in Dorchester, Mass. It shines brightly like a newly minted penny.
Your thoughts in Dorchester are like dimes rained down from Heaven. Ten of them will buy you a newpaper or a a box of candied peanuts. Three hundred thousand can lease you an apartment for year in the nieghborhood.
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