THE MOVING EFFECT

“(A) tiny difference in the initial conditions becomes amplified by evolution, until the two trajectories evolve quite separately. The amplification is exponential, the difference grows very rapidly and after a surprisingly short time the two solutions behave quite differently. This Butterfly Effect is the essence of chaos.”

-- Michael Cross, some CalTech smartypants guy

The so-called “Butterfly Effect,” the darling theory of nonlinear mathematicians, purports that tiny changes in a system will trigger greater, subsequent changes which will then propel a system toward an ultimately unpredictable conclusion.

It earns the name from the suggestion that if a butterfly flaps its wings in Brazil, it could, theoretically, set off a tornado in Texas. Which may or may not be true, but if there’s even a chance it is, the good people of Brazil better hope Rick Perry doesn’t find out about it.

But even if its name can’t be taken literally, there’s no doubting that a system can come unraveled in a hurry – especially if the system is in the early stages of development.

Take, for instance, the time we moved from one house to another over Memorial Day Weekend 2004, a process which produced chaos at a level not even Mr CalTech Ear Wax Sniffer – and you just know he does – could ever have anticipated.

It all started, as most household mayhem does, in the laundry room.

A walkthrough of the new house indicated that its washer/dryer accommodations were not as roomy as our old house. So, I measured both spaces and sure enough the new space was 3 inches too small. So, I bought a washer that was exactly 3 inches narrower and happily moved it and the old dryer into the new house.

At which time I made two exciting discoveries:

(a) The old dryer cord did not match the new dryer outlet, meaning I should have purchased a compliant dryer which was three inches narrower rather than a washer which was three inches narrower – or, at the very least, purchased a replacement dryer cord, an option whose existence was heretofore unknown to me and, even had I known about it, surely a feat of such advanced technological and engineering expertise was beyond my capacity to personally attain, especially when you consider that—

(b) The space was actually 4 inches too narrow, so it didn’t matter anyway.

Later, we made a special trip to the store for a stick-on light, because the light fixture outside the pantry did not work and since that’s where we kept our various bags of potato and tortilla chips, it was not a task to be postponed one second longer than absolutely necessary. The next day, the landlord’s handyman kindly pointed out the “broken” fixture’s on/off switch and showed us how to place it in the “on” position.

At some point during the move, my left foot began to hurt in a way I’d previously thought only a gunshot wound or, maybe, an accidental amputation could cause.

(And I’m not saying my pain was age-related, but three mornings later, the pain was gone and I could not remember which foot it was which had been hurt. Good Lord. It’s galling enough not to know why I have aches and pains. But I should at least be able to remember from one day to the next where the pain was located.)

The first night in the house, our son Jack – despite numerous warnings from downstairs – insisted on screaming rather than sleeping. I attempted to run authoritatively up the stairs, except the injury to my left foot caused me to stumble and slam my right foot into the edge of one step and my left wrist into the edge of another, all of which very nearly caused me to commit a crime which would have made me unpopular among my new neighbors, not to mention my family members, especially the family member I bludgeoned to death with my one remaining functional appendage.

Later that night – after 18 hours of uninterrupted and pain-wracked labor – I closed my eyes in my new bedroom and waited for the sweet release of unconsciousness. Then I heard a beeping sound, a beeping sound which I would soon associate with my complete mental and emotional undoing.

I heard it again.

BEEP!

A minute or so later.

BEEP!

I figured it was the alert of a smoke detector battery going dead – which it was, although “going undead” would probably be more accurate.

BEEP!

Grumbling, aching, and miserable, I climbed out of bed and went smoke detector hunting. There were four of them on the second floor – one in each bedroom and one in the hallway. The rooms all wrapped around a central staircase, so I positioned myself at the top of the stairs and listened, in the dark, stepladder in hand, to see where the next beep came from.

BEEP!

Aha! Margaret’s room. I stood on the ladder – in the dark, so as not to wake my daughter and, yes, I did kinda hate her a little for being able to blissfully sleep right through this auditory shit storm – and removed the battery. But before I could even finish patting myself on the back for a job well done--

BEEP!

Two dead batteries? What are the chances? I went back out into the hall.

BEEP!

My room. Ladder. Remove. Climb down.

BEEP!

No fucking way— Back out to the hall. Pause for a moment.

BEEP!

Margaret’s room. Again.

But there’s no battery in it!

The battery was still in my hand. I even looked down at it and rolled it over in my hand, confirming its physical reality.

BEEP!

I had no idea where that one came from, probably on accounta the rising panic in my mind and the concomitant rush of blood in my ears. I scrambled to remove all the batteries from all the detectors. That finished, I stood again at the top of the stairs, assuring myself that everything was gonna be al---

BEEP!

I am not making this up. I was holding every battery in my hand and those motherfuckers were still beeping.

BEEP!

With my last ounce of strength, I unplugged all four detectors from their ceiling mounts and placed them in a pile at the top of the stairs. The job completed, I stood over them, like the conquering – if not psychologically damaged – hero that I was.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

My hand to God. The pile of unplugged, battery-less, detectors was beeping.

They’re alive!! Run!!

Eventually, whatever residual electricity flowing through the damnable collection of circuits played itself out and the beeping stopped.

The next time we moved, the first thing I did was remove all the smoke detectors, batteries and all. Just to be safe.

Take that¸ Butterfly Guy.

© 2014 Lee B. Weaver