The series of events in question began one evening last week while I was listening to an Internet radio account of my Dodgers coming from behind for yet another late-inning rally to defeat a ball club that had been roundly thumping them throughout the game. For a while there, it was a nightly scenario. They would fall behind and win in their last at-bat.
Then, out of nowhere, a somewhat high-pitched and repeating sound intruded into the aural ambiance formerly occupied solely by the roar of the crowd coming through cyberspace from Dodger Stadium. The chirping tweet brought with it instant recognition. We had met before.
A cricket had set up shop among the ceiling beams of my living room. No other explanation fit the rhythm and duration of the almost musical upper-register solos being performed.
My initial immersion into cricket behavior occurred during one of those culturally oriented treks along the west coasts of Mexico and California back when such idyllic wanderings were more in fashion than they are today. I had set up camp in a Redwood Grove along the Russian River north of San Francisco.
It was there, one night, while lounging upon a bed of boughs and an old serape, that the local cricket population decided to treat me to a welcome-to-the-neighborhood concert. The length of the solos became riveting. I began to count the number of chirps in each “riff” and record it in my journal.
A pattern was what I was after, I suppose, and maybe a bit of insight, although whatever story the numbers tell escapes me to this day. There they are upon the page: 12, 10, 8, 6, 5, 10, 7, (pause) 9, 9, 11, 17, 15, (longer pause) 15, 5, 8. I wasn’t learning much but I was certainly getting a kick out of my new neighbors and it was much more interesting than counting sheep.
At this point, it is noted, I introduced change into the recital by tossing a couple of service berries I had picked earlier toward the orchestra pit’s perceived location. Whoa! Instantly, the vibe changed. The plot thickened: 28, 37, 22, 49, 44, 36, and when another berry went flying, the numbers began reaching into the 60s , then 70s, then 80s.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch among the ceiling beams and the Dodger rally, my guy (only males chirp) busied himself rubbing his wings together in such a fashion as to cause them to vibrate in song (when one still finds it pleasing) and in irritation (when one does not.)
An attempt at locating the cricket’s exact whereabouts proved fruitless. First, as you got closer to where you thought the sound came from, the chirps would fade in volume and, seemingly, swirl about. Even a period of feigned disinterest and covert sidelong glances on my part didn’t help.
I went into the kitchen and the chirping continued unabated. I glared back at the beam junction where he more than likely held forth and it abruptly stopped. I looked away to rinse out a coffee cup and, once again, the chirping began. I looked back and, was greeted by frozen silence.
He was obviously toying with me. Not unlike a particle in quantum physics, he refused to be observed. It was as if the mere act of scrutiny changed either his location or what he was up to. The “uncertainty principle,” which states that the position and momentum of a particle cannot both be known precisely at the same time, had once again raised its theoretical head.
The next morning the absence of chirping was almost deafening. I actually moped around a bit while carrying on a one-sided conversation with my now-missing insect roommate. I had meant no disrespect, but he had moved on to greener pastures.
He remained in my thoughts that evening at an Etta James concert at Red Butte Garden down at the University of Utah. Her keyboardist had my attention most of the night, especially when he performed on his Hammond B-3 organ, a longtime favorite instrument with a quite singular, almost orchestral, tone.
As most B-3 operators are wont to do, this guy employed a “Leslie” rotating-speaker system as a means of modifying the sound coming from his instrument. One of the Leslie’s more interesting means of sound manipulation is the Doppler Effect produced as the rotating speaker first approaches and then rotates away from the listener.
Early in the show, I couldn’t help but notice the rotating-speaker component come to a complete stop each time I looked its way. It happened over and over. First the cricket and now the rotating speaker. There’s no doubt about it: Uncertainty is gaining a foothold.
Jay Meehan is a culture junkie and a free-lance writer with a background in commercial and community radio, among other pursuits. He has been a columnist and feature writer for various Park City publications going back to 1973.