Believe what you will about the Gods, karma, the universe, whatever! There are some rules that even atheists should follow. Never call your boat “unsinkable”. Don’t call your machine gun “peace-producing”. And DO NOT, for the love of Shakespeare, describe your playhouse as “absolutely fireproof”. It seems that whenever arrogance takes precedence over public safety, the gods have something to say about this hubris. This episode is as horrific as you might guess, but it does make us wonder just how horrible things have to get before we make change. When the doors of the Iroquois Theater opened in 1903, it was said to be the most beautiful in all of Chicago. A masterpiece adorned with mahogany and glass doors, marble and gold pillars, and a grand central staircase. Boasting a seating capacity of 1,600 people on three levels, the Iroquois promised a night of enchantment to all. Better still, it was declared in playbills and advertising to be “absolutely fireproof”. People back then were justifiably worried about theatre fires so the architect studied every previous theatre disaster to avoid anything happening at the Iroquois. His solution and therefore justification for making such a confident (some might say arrogant) claim was a state-of-the-art asbestos curtain. If there was a fire, the stagehands would simply lower it down on stage. And as if that wasn’t enough, they also had handy Killfyre tubes (think of a poster tube with bicarb soda in it) as if they’d even be needed. But opposition to this hubris came in the form of the editor of Fireproof Magazine. Despite its claims, the Iroquois was far from fireproof. Lack of proper exits, exposed reinforcement, and inadequate firefighting equipment became glaring issues. There were also no sprinklers, alarms, telephones or water connections and only one common (albeit opulent) stairway, despite Chicago fire ordinances that required separate stairways and exits for each balcony. Caution to the wind, the fateful day arrived for the matinee performance of "Mr. Blue Beard." The audience, mostly women and children, excitedly filled every seat and occupied standing room everywhere else. As the show entered its second act, a spark from a stage light ignited drapery high above the stage. Stagehands whipped out their trusty Killfyre tubes only to find they couldn’t toss the powder high enough. Next up, the fail-safe asbestos curtain… snagged on the way down. And then it very quickly became apparent that the fire could not be contained. Panic ensued and audience members bolted from their seats toward whatever exit they could find. But you’d need the gods on your side to find an exit in the Iroquois Theater. The forward-thinking architect deliberately hid them, citing a more pleasing aesthetic. Once eventually found, the scorched patrons were greeted with a puzzling DaVinci-code-style mechanism to unlock the doors. Worse still, the doors opened inward and some were even fake, painted-on doors. There was one upper-level fire escape, but it lacked an exterior ladder down to the ground. Two large flues on the rooftop where the smoke and flame could have vented out were boarded shut. It was as if Lucifer himself designed the Iroquois. An estimated 575 people died that day and at least thirty more over the following weeks. As word of the staggering death toll spread, the city was overcome by collective mourning followed by a swift closing of all playhouses and implementation of stricter fire safety measures (enter that green glowing exit sign we’ve all seen everywhere). But was anyone held responsible for this horrifying event? SOURCES: Chicago death trap: The Iroquois Theater fire of 1903, by Nat Brandt People Thought Machine Guns Might Prevent Wars, in The Atlantic The Iroquois Theater Disaster Killed Hundreds and Changed Fire Safety Forever in Smithsonian Magazine The Tragedy of the Iroquois Theater Fire, on WTTW See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

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“What did the council decide on item 42?” — answered with the speaker and the moment.

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