It's Murphy's Law
In 1949, U.S. Air Force engineers were studying humans’ tolerance to extreme G-forces and rapid deceleration using a rocket sled named “Gee Whiz.” Do you get it? Like, gee whiz, I'm glad we’ve finally figured out how to turn a doctor of medicine into a government-funded projectile. The experiment was part of Project MX981 at Edwards Air Force Base, led by Dr. John Paul Stapp. The man offered himself up as a human guinea pig, strapping himself into the deathtrap.
It was then launched down a track at over 200 miles per hour and stopped completely in a split second, subjecting Stapp to brutal, bone-shattering forces that resulted in fractures, concussions, and burst blood vessels in his eyes. Stapp was a man of science; he viewed damage to his body as necessary for a successful test. Personally, I am a man of skepticism. If almost dying is a necessary step in your research, maybe your research isn't the biggest thing you should be worried about. Might I suggest a martini? Perhaps poppers?
Image Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons - John Stapp rides a rocket sled at Edwards Air Force Base.
It's all worth it for the results, he probably told himself, as his face contorted under the brutal forces of the deceleration.
Enter Captain Edward A. Murphy Jr., an aerospace engineer on the team. His task was to develop electronic strain gauges to measure the forces experienced during Stapp’s rocket sled tests. One of his technicians, presumably bored out of his mind because the internet wouldn't exist for decades, apparently thought, Fuck it, let’s make this a little more interesting. He had wired all 16 sensors backwards, so the data logs showed only blank readings. The precious sensors that Murphy had spent months developing sat on that rocket sled, looking pretty and doing absolutely nothing.
I can picture Stapp climbing off the sled, bloodshot eyes fixed on Murphy, and asking, “Hey pal! Did we get it?” Then comes the slow realization that he’ll have to once again strap himself into the torture chamber. I'm sure that “Gee Whiz” took on an entirely new meaning after that day. Gee Whiz Murphy, at least buy me a drink before you fuck me like that.
On that day, Murphy's law was born:
Image Courtesy of Gabriel Gonzalez Marino
Jumping forward, it's 2016, and my team of engineers and I (my brother and my dad) were developing our own record-breaking project. It was the summer, and we were building a treehouse. It is no exaggeration to say that there was nothing I cared more about than having a treehouse. It was my life's purpose, my Moby-Dick. My team and I worked for months, managing difficult deadlines (bedtime was at nine back then) and developing new strategies to combat unforeseen complications. The first major roadblock was that there were no trees in my backyard.
To some, this setback might have caused the termination of the entire project. My team wanted to jump ship, but I deployed a series of masterful management strategies to keep them on task. These strategies included kicking and screaming, locking myself in my room, and bothering my father during his important work calls. How dare he pursue other ventures while being under my employment? How unprofessional.
Our innovative solution was to construct a five-foot platform from wooden planks and build a quaint, house-like structure on top. It would not be featured in Treehouse Masters on HGTV, but it had surpassed my expectations as project manager. I was absolutely ecstatic.
Image Courtesy of Gabriel Gonzalez Marino - A chocolate ice cream cone that was attacked by Murphy's Law.
Later that month I added another very crucial member to my team, my new hamster. If there's one species on Earth that knows more about Murphy's Law than Dr. John Paul Stapp, it’s hamsters. For some inexplicable reason, still unknown to researchers today, hamsters raised in quiet suburban households always seem to meet the most gruesome and untimely deaths.
I have raised this question in many social situations: “What was the completely horrific accident that led to the death of your childhood hamster?” I have heard it all: exploded in the microwave, perfumed to death, fell into a toilet and joined a posse of deceased goldfish. These tales are as terrifying as they are numerous. Unfortunately, my hamster too met an untimely end, but he lived one hell of a life.
One day, we were up in the treehouse together, and he was in his little ball, rolling around as hamsters do. How does he spin around so much without getting dizzy? I wondered, twirling about on the floor of the treehouse myself, like someone attempting to complete a 5K on Strava without moving more than a foot. The rickety five-foot platform began shaking violently, and my hamster inched closer and closer to the edge. Just as he was nearing the precipice, my mom called me inside, halting the shaking and sparing the hamster's life. I went in and left him behind.
An hour passed before I realized I’d forgotten him. When I finally returned, the ball had somehow transported itself from the treehouse to the ground. He had fallen.
I screamed and ran to the ball, only to find the little survivalist still peacefully rolling around inside of it. He had survived his very own version of Project MX981, and like the great survivalist before him, he had made it through the trial bruised, but still in one piece.
Image Courtesy of Gabriel Gonzalez Marino
There’s one important detail I have neglected to mention: the name of my childhood hamster. I’d named him before I knew the cautionary tale of Murphy and Stapp. I’d named him Murphy.
Therefore, according to law, there was still much more that could go wrong. And go wrong it did. A few months later, my babysitter offered to give him a bath. I was overjoyed at the thought of Murphy getting squeaky clean for the night. I’d never heard of giving hamsters baths before, but my babysitter was obviously all-knowing, so naturally, it was a fantastic idea. In reality, she was like Captain Murphy’s technician, thinking, fuck it, let's make this a little more interesting.
When I awoke the next morning, Murphy had died of hypothermia.
The funeral was held in my backyard, where my entire family stood in a circle around a cardboard box containing what remained of our $14.99 investment. It was a beautiful service.
Ten years later, it's 2026, and things are still going wrong. I’ve seen enough Final Destination movies and have had enough deceased childhood pets to know that some small mistakes can have severe consequences. Even now, when I ask people at parties, “What was the completely horrific accident that led to the death of your childhood hamster?” I get funny looks and end up with fewer invitations to parties. However, I've embraced that things go wrong: at social gatherings, on treehouses, in Air Force experiments. There will always be a faulty wire job, or a babysitter who maybe isn't fit to be looking after young children. There will also always be the possibility that I say something so profoundly embarrassing that everyone in the room remembers it until the day they die.
College has taught me that the human brain can turn a ten-second interaction into a feature-length psychological thriller produced by A24 and starring Mckenna Grace, who is required to appear in everything now, obviously.
I'll spend the next three weekends dissecting a conversation the other person has already forgotten, wondering whether my joke was funny, whether my laugh sounded hyena-esque, and whether getting up on the pole at University Club to dance terribly was wise.
Image Courtesy of Gabriel Gonzalez Marino - My umbrella giving up on me, Murphy's Law strikes again!
But perhaps that's the point of Murphy's Law. Things will go wrong, whether I'm strapped into a rocket sled, hanging out with a hamster in a treehouse, or trying to make small talk with a stranger. I can spend my life anticipating every possible disaster, or I can accept that I'll occasionally embarrass myself, some projects will fail, and, once in a while, a rodent will die and become a permanent part of my personality.
Like Dr. Stapp, I keep getting back on that rocket sled. Not because I'm convinced that the next test will go perfectly, but because I know that there's no way to guarantee it won't go wrong. Still, a guy can only take so many punches. If something is always bound to go awry, I might as well get a good melodramatic walk and a story out of it.
Strike Out,
Writer: Gabriel Gonzalez Marino
Editor: Ria Pai
Copy Editor: Annalise Bodine
Gabriel Gonzalez Marino is a writer and copy editor for Strike Magazine GNV. He is gay and surviving thriving.
