A new theory explaining the unpredictability of forecasting the weather

by

Connie Willis

Okay, so I’m cruising around, looking for chicks, and it starts to rain. So I hang a left in under a lilac bush to get out of it. I hope some chicks have had the same idea, since they’re always worried about their looks and getting wet and stuff, but the only thing under the bush is this centipede.

He gives me a dirty look and says, “This is all your fault.”

I don’t usually hang out with pedestrians, but I figure maybe he’s heard something about what happened when me and Buzz were draggin’ this morning in the meadow, so I say, real casual, “Huh?”

“The rain,” the centipede says, “You caused it.”

“You’re all wet,” I say, but does he laugh? No. pedestrians have no sense of humor. He.says, “It’s your fault that it’s raining.”

“Who says, creep?”

“Edward Lorenz says.”

“I never even met the guy,” I say. “It musta been somebody else.”

“Then why did he call it the Butterfly Effect?”

I don’t have any idea what he’s talking about, and anyway, it’s stopped raining, and I see this cute chick I know, I forget her name. She is fluttering around, wiggling her rear in that way chicks have that makes you crazy, so I catch up with her and say, “Hiya, baby. Wanna go for a spin?”

She gives me a look like I am some kind of bug and flies off without saying anything. I figure she musta heard about me and Darlene, so I take off after her, but as I fly past the roses I see this really cool chick. She is sitting on this big pink rose like she is waiting for me, waggling her wings at me, so I put on the brakes and pull up next to her.

“Hiya, dreamboat,” I say, turning on the old pheromones. “Wanna park for a while?”

“I didn’t appreciate the rain,” she says, real stuck-up. “It almost ruined my outfit,” and flies off.

Man, I am really confused now because I never bomb with chicks, and here I’ve struck out twice. “What’s going on around here?” I say.

“Chaos theory,” somebody says, and I see it’s a spider, crawling around on the rose leaves. I don’t usually hang out with the fuzz because they are always trying to put the cuffs on you, but if anybody knows what’s going on, they do. So I say, “What did she mean by that crack about the rain? I didn’t have nothing to do with it “

“That’s what you think,” the spider says. “Chaos theory says you did. It’s a new theory that was formulated to explain the unpredictability of forecasting the weather. It explains chaotic systems like atmospheric air flow which are sensitive to fluctuations too small to be measured.”

The whole time he is saying this, he is crawling up the rose I am on, so I tool on over to another one before I ask him what that has to do with me.

“Tiny variations in a chaotic system become magnified into large-scale changes. Your fluttering your wings sets air patterns in motion that can cause a typhoon in China. Or a drought in California. Or an afternoon shower, which I might add,” he says, “destroyed one of my best webs.”

“No way, man. I wasn’t anywhere near the place,” I say. “How come you’re trying to pin this on me? How about moths? Their wings are bigger than mine. How about birds? Or cats. I’ve known cats that could drop the Fahrenheit fifty degrees just by looking at you.

“If it were their fault, it wouldn’t be called the Butterfly Effect,” the spider says.

“Who came up with this theory anyway?” I say.

“Humans,” the spider says.

I mighta known. Humans are great at comin’ up with stuff. Like the butterfly net. And Raid.

“Hold still,” the spider. says. “You don’t want to cause a heat wave in Moscow,” he says, and I see that the whole time we have been shooting the breeze, he has been rigging a web between his rose and the one I’m on, so I don’t wait around to see what he’s up to. I fly off, and then I get to thinking about what I am probably doing to California, and I land on a tiger lily and sit there, thinking about why they’ve laid this rap on me. I mean, who are they trying to kid? One little flap of my wings causes a typhoon but thirty million Toyotas doesn’t do anything?

And if they’re looking for something to pin the weather on, what about all these theories humans keep coming up with to explain stuff? They’ve got a new one every day - cold fusion and asbestos removal and punctuated equilibrium - and they’re always standing around yapping about them. It’s enough hot air to cause fifty typhoons.

I am thinking nobody who has ever heard humans shoot the breeze about supply-side economics is going to believe this chaos stuff, but just then this,. cute chick zooms by like she doesn’t even know I’m alive, and it’s obvious she thinks it’s my fault, which I don’t get because if it’s a butterfly effect, she’s causing typhoons, too. But chicks are a lot like humans - everything is always somebody else’s fault.

So I am sitting there, thinking this chaos theory is about as good an idea as the butterfly net, when up comes Buzz. “Hey, wanna drag?” he says.

I don’t answer him.

“Wanna go pick up chicks?” he says, looking at the chick who flew by before and who has landed on a peony now and is looking real cute.

“Chicks?” I say. “Haven’t you heard about the butterfly effect?”

“You mean about us causing typhoons?” Buzz says. “Sure, man.”

“So what are we going to do about it?” I say.

“Do about it?” he says, sounding surprised. “Nothing, man. Chicks love it. They like guys they think are trouble. Watch this.”

He peels out, and I follow him over to the peonies and land next to the chick, who doesn’t even notice me.

She is looking at old Buzz. “Is it true you can cause a typhoon in China?” she says.

“If I’m in the mood,” he says, holding his wings real still, like he’s afraid he’ll hurt something if he moves. “I made it snow in Montana last week.”

“Really?” she says, all fluttery.

“Thirty inches in the middle of June,” he says. “Wanna go for a ride?”

“I don’t know if I should,” she says, all giggly. “You might be dangerous!”

“I might,” he says.

“You call a snowstorm dangerous?” I say. real cool. “Anybody can make it anow in Montana.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Buzz says.

“Nothing,” I say. “If that’s the best you can do. Now, a really dangerous guy,” I say to the chick, “wouldn’t waste his time on Montana. He’d stir up a blizzard down in Florida.”

“Can you do that?” she says.

“Last week,” I say, real casual. “Wiped out the whole orange crop. This week I’m working on tornadoes.”

“Really?” she says. “Where?”

“Texas,” I say, and flap my wings a couple of times, real casual.

She gives a little scream. “How many tornadoes?” she says.

“How many do you want?”

“Tornadoes in Texas are nothing. I can do ‘em in Minnesota. Watch this,” Buzz says, revving up his wings, but the chick isn’t paying attention.

“Can you do nice weather, too?” she says to me.

“Sure,” I say. “Balmy breezes, warm nights... ,” and right then these two other really cute chicks fly up and ask me if I can do monsoons, and I can see old Buzz is right. Chicks love it. And I have to hand it to humans. Their theories aren’t much, but they come up with some great ways to get chicks.

“I can do dust storms in Kansas,” Buzz says, flapping his wings like crazy, but the chicks aren’t paying attention.

“Can you do hurricanes?” one of the chicks says to me.

“Sure,” I say. “Watch this.”