Chaos Theory and Determinism
Content Warnings: Casual misogyny, homophobia, and enbyphobia; drug lacing; themes of suicide; death
Austin Fox Jr.
Email: austin_fox_jr1@gmail.com
Tel: (202)-555-0131
PROFILE
Graduate in Business Studies with a minor in German, specializing in Operations Management. My extensive analysis and modeling of data sets during this degree has fostered a profound level of diligence and efficiency. Having completed an internship at the head office of Amberston Banking, I am familiar with fast-paced business environments, and feel comfortable taking on the challenges of tight deadlines and short turnarounds. I have a deep interest in the textiles industry, and it would be a privilege to contribute to a company as reputed within its field and the state of Alabama as Fort Carpet.
EMPLOYMENT HISTORY
Internship — Investment Analyst (June – August 2022)
Shadowed high level figures in their daily duties, developing a strong understanding of efficient work and chains of command
Assisted in research on other businesses to optimize investment return – easily transferable to the sourcing of materials for product manufacturing
Learned ways of keeping abreast of market developments and changes in the broader business landscape
EDUCATION
Bachelor of Business Studies (2019 – 2023)
University of Chicago
Chicago, IL
SKILLS
Thorough and detail-oriented approach to problem-solving
Advanced in Google Workspace and Microsoft 365
Excellent standard of written and verbal communication
Quick to acquire mechanics of new tools and software
HOBBIES AND INTERESTS
Abstract painting and history of art
Classical music
Philosophy and concepts
I am Austin Fox Jr., otherwise known as Junior, and that is the current draft of my resume. I’m applying to be a trainee machinist at Fort Carpet’s primary factory just outside of Auburn, Alabama. I don’t plan to remain in the role for more than two years, nor fewer if I can help it. I want to make it clear that my aspiration isn’t to fiddle with gadgets on a production line, but to be an innovator in business and a leader on the American economic stage. My family, each without fail, have questioned why I would pursue a low-level role like this, fearing I’ll be ill-poised to attain my goals and waste valuable years of my youth. My reason has to do with a man named Gustav Ritter.
Mr. Ritter was born on the 28th of April, 1890 in Vaduz, Liechtenstein. He established himself as a leader in the European textiles industry during the interbellum period of the early 20th century. By the time of his death in 1949 due to complications with gallstones, his was a name with which anyone serious about textiles was expected to be familiar, or be derided in their professional circle. I know a lot about Mr. Ritter. When I say “a lot”, I mean it’s not unthinkable that I am the foremost expert on the man in the world — I’m decently certain that neither any historian nor any textile fanatic would be so concerned with his legacy as to research the obscurest sources about his life. Ritter produced no offspring and was an only child, so it’s safe to assume that there is little enduring knowledge of his life and character that was not written down.
Gustav Ritter is not my hero, no matter what mama continues to tell my aunts and uncles. There are no posters of him in my bedroom, I do not write fanfiction about him, and were I to host a dinner party for significant people living or dead I’m not sure he would even make the guestlist. Frankly, on a personal level, it seems he was a very boring man. But, he was undeniably a successful entrepreneur and, of equal importance, he shares my birthday — 28th of April. That is perhaps the least interesting similarity between us. He was born without eyebrows (per his mother’s postpartum diary), as was I. His grandfather died when he was six years of age, as did my grandmother when I was six. At fourteen, he learned of a long-standing affair between his father and the local carpenter’s wife. In my case it was with the maid.
These are all coincidences of course, as are the more minor parallels, like our double-jointedness (his in his thumb, mine in my wrist), our German heritage (my colonial ancestors changed their names from Fuchs to Fox for assimilation purposes), and our asymmetrical wisdom tooth eruptions. I also have a family history of gallstones. Ritter’s existence came to my attention a few years ago as I was looking up famous figures who shared my birthday, and found myself amused by the handful of relatable facts on his modestly-sized Wikipedia page. Only in the last six months have I come to learn of his true importance to my life as I’ve delved into the philosophical world of chaos theory and determinism.
For the uninitiated, chaos theory and determinism describe the idea that initial conditions always lead to the same conclusion, and that a great many things are causally linked. The “Butterfly Effect”, as you might have heard it be described, refers to the idea that tornadoes in the Southern United States are caused by butterflies flapping their wings in Brazil. Small events snowball into larger consequences unfailingly and, by my assessment, predictably. As I see it, this is the way of the world. With this in mind, and knowing I already share a peculiar number of traits with Gustav Ritter, I hypothesize that were I to emulate key events and details from his life (dubbed “antecedents” in the field of chaos theory), it is almost certain that I could also emulate his prosperity in industry. I would only need to establish myself as a businessman, then I could break loose from his established path and forge even further on the back of my own acumen, since I don’t fancy being killed by gallstones.
This is my plan, and why I’m applying to work in a carpet factory. Ritter, when he had just left school, immediately took a job in the largest textile mill in Liechtenstein. He stayed in that post for two years until leaving for Germany to apprentice under a famed upholsterer in Bavaria. From there he made connections and built his wealth and skills until returning to Liechtenstein to found Ritterpolster, a future leader in Western European textiles. My estimation is that by spending a similar time doing menial work I can set the stage for my future success. The foundational pillars are already in place, so it only makes sense to lay the bricks. Excuse the dramatics, but I’m truly building my own destiny!
…
A week following the submission of my resume, I was invited to interview at the Fort Carpet factory! It’s a ninety-minute drive from here, and I’ll be leaving very soon. I had a breakfast of sliced pears – a favorite of Mr. Ritter’s – for good luck. I don’t think this is significant enough to impact the deterministic forces of the world, but I’ll allow myself some minor superstitions. Truthfully, I have never been interviewed before (not properly at least), so despite being pleased with myself I’m still rather apprehensive. I’ve historically not gotten along well with blue-collar types, but I’ve assembled my smartest suit and practiced extensively in the mirror to make a good impression.
I go over my notes multiple times during the drive, which might have been unnecessary since – and let’s not be coy about it – I’m massively overqualified. The diligence cannot hurt though, and it befits a good businessman. I arrive in good time, and on exiting the car am greeted by a much more modern building that I’d anticipated. Sharp shapes, plain colors, and no exposed brick at all. Were it not so expansive, you could assume for its contemporary minimalism that the factory was some sort of community arts college or a rec center. This gives me pause, but ultimately, the aesthetics of the site are immaterial. I check my tie, fold my notes up into my pocket and make my way inside.
The receptionist smiles on seeing me, and asks if I’m here to interview. His bright red sweater has me wondering if I’m overdressed, and after he guides me to a small waiting room outside the manager’s office I use the five minutes until my timeslot to head to the bathroom and remove my tie. When I return to the room there is a suited man (yes, with a tie) waiting for me who introduces himself as the manager. I mentally curse the metrosexual receptionist while the man invites me in to start the interview early. They must not run to a strict schedule.
His office is as uninspired as the building’s exterior. I sit down opposite him at a generic desk. My impression had been that I’d be talking to at least two people, but so far this organization has proved itself rather hippy-dippy so this shouldn’t surprise me. Immediately the manager addresses the strangeness of my application given my credentials. That’s fine; I’ve prepared extensively for this question. I recite an insincere explanation about the value of manual laborers to industry, and how important it is for prospective leaders to understand the production process on a practical level. He seems to accept this reasoning, and is perhaps impressed, but doesn’t abandon the line of interrogation. To my dismay, he asks if I would be interested in a junior role at the Fort Carpet head office in Montgomery.
I’m unsure how to navigate this. It seems unwise to lay out my deterministic approach in this situation, but I don’t want to offend him by flatly rejecting the offer. I tell him how dedicated I am to the idea of working on the factory floor, but bafflingly, he tells me he’s unsure if I have the necessary experience to be working with the factory’s machines. What idiocy. I’m not qualified to be a button-pressing clodpole? I keep my cool, and make the snap suggestion of an unpaid role to demonstrate my ability and learn on the job at no cost to the company. He reluctantly takes to it, even declaring eventually that he’ll sort out any commute costs. I say that won’t be necessary and I thank him with a grin for giving me this fantastic opportunity, my philosopher’s excitement overriding the resentment I feel over his earlier insult. Celebrations are in order – this is my first intentional antecedent attained on Gustav Ritter’s path to success.
…
It's been a year since starting at the factory. I was taken aback to encounter some technical aspects of the job for which I was quite unprepared, but I’m a fast learner and some poorly-designed machines didn’t slow me down for long. The brutish men I work with are surprisingly non-combative towards me, and the thirty-minute walk from my rental house in Auburn is pleasant enough. I’ve adjusted well – as Darwin said, the strongest creatures adapt to their environments. I really can’t say I regret taking the position, though I still look forward every day to the moment I can move on to the next major antecedent.
In the meantime, I’ve been trying to make more subtle changes to my life to strengthen the deterministic forces pulling me towards my conquest of business. Ritter attended the theater every Friday evening to watch a local production, and so too have I been doing. Unlike the Auburn University student troupe, I’m not fond of musicals, but I have to keep reminding myself that my interests have nothing to do with this. This became painfully obvious when I forced myself to attend a small protest outside Auburn town hall, not because I am a bleeding heart liberal with too much time on my hands, but because Gustav Ritter participated in picket lines during his time at the factory, and since my colleagues are clearly too grateful to sink to industrial action, I had to look elsewhere for protest opportunities. I believe it all had something to do with a park.
I was leafing through my chronology of Ritter’s life to see if there were any events I could emulate while keeping to my work commitments, and I’ve identified a possible opportunity in a brief trip he took to the mountains. There’s nothing as majestic as the Alps here in Alabama, but we do have the Talladega Mountains, which aren’t a long drive from Auburn. I’ve preliminarily planned a hiking route and reached out to a girl I know from college, since Ritter was also joined by a schoolfriend on his outing. I’ll try to enjoy it, but I’m becoming more comfortable with the fact that I should put that sort of thing out of my mind if I’m to see this project through. I’ve bought some gear and with any luck I’ll be in Talladega National Forest two weekends from now.
…
I meet Alexandra at a trail marker. She makes a joke about my professional-grade hiking gear, and I rejoinder regarding her impractically high-cut top, to which she takes playful offense. I think she’s genuinely pleased to see me, and I find myself similarly happy to talk to someone I know who isn’t a colleague or a judgmental family member. We spend a moment comparing the snacks we’ve brought before setting off into the park.
After some walking and catching up, we take a break at a clearing with some logs that are suitable for sitting. Alexandra sits beside me even though there’s a log opposite, which is odd, but I’m not so bothered. I listen to her talk about her Lacrosse team’s recent successes and the various concerts she’s attended. I’m actually quite compelled, strangely enough, although that might have something to do with how pretty I find her. Her arms have gotten more muscular since we graduated, and I had also noted her toned abs back at the trail marker. While I would have assumed I’d find her mannish as a result, there’s certainly an attractive aspect to it.
She mentions that her team is called Aristotle’s Angels, due to them being based in Athens, a city in Northern Alabama. I use this as a segue to talk about philosophy, which she doesn’t mind. I often did so when we spoke at college, and she has more of a brain for the abstract and the theoretical than a lot of other girls. I get onto explaining the survivorship bias fallacy, wherein survivors of an incident mistakenly think they’ll necessarily survive future incidents. She says her favorite fallacy to point out is the naturalistic fallacy, which I’m not quite sure she understands, but it’s nice to hear someone reciprocate my interests.
She then asks what prompted the meet-up, since we haven’t spoken in a while. With there being some conversational chemistry, and her already seeming curious about my job at the factory, I decide it’s probably safe to tell her about Gustav Ritter. I summarize his biography and where our stories overlap, I give her a rundown of determinism and chaos theory, and I detail how I plan to align my life choices with Ritter’s to prosper in business.
Alexandra laughs. I ask what’s funny. Evidently she thought I was joking, because her face falls. She then has the gall to tell me that I’ve misunderstood determinism and chaos theory. I’ve misunderstood determinism and chaos theory? Against my better judgment I entertain her, and ask what she means by “misunderstood”. She seems to think determinism is something to do with loads of unconnected events conspiring to produce outcomes. My turn to laugh. How would that work? Not only does it not make sense – unconnected events somehow being connected – but it also completely undermines the concept of free will. My fate being determined by external, uncontrollable forces? It doesn’t even bear thinking about.
Now things have turned awkward, and I steer off the subject quickly, because I’d much rather discuss most anything else than have a dykish shrew attempt to discredit my life philosophy. She senses my discomfort, and tries to move on as well, but a little while later as we continue our hike I struggle to focus on our conversation as I’m still ruminating on the girl’s silly refutation. We go on with large bouts of silence interrupted occasionally by dead-end pop culture talking points. I don’t suppose this is how Ritter’s trip to the mountains panned out at all, but the sources aren’t detailed enough to know. When we finally reach the end of our trail, there are two cars waiting for each of us and we say our goodbyes. She wishes me luck, with a smile that I read as earnest in spite of her clear lack of respect for me. I should be glad for the successful hike, but I find I’m not, and when I get home I fall asleep until dinner.
…
The next morning I take some time to evaluate my approach, and realize this is yet another case of putting my feelings above my destiny. I don’t enjoy musicals, I don’t enjoy protests, I didn’t enjoy meeting Alexandra, and none of that matters. After my shower, I’m feeling more determined (haha) than ever, and look towards arranging the next antecedent.
I spend the hour before I leave for work sending emails with my resume to every textile artisan in a five-hundred mile radius, enquiring about potential apprenticeships, and intend to write to some more when I get back. At the factory, I ask some of my “superiors” if they happen to have any contacts that would be relevant to my goal, which bemuses most of them, but I do get a phone number from my supervisor.
The phone call is a dud, and after a week every email I’ve sent has either been met with a polite rejection or radio silence. I increase the radius of my search a few times but it doesn’t change the situation remotely. I really shouldn’t despair, as I have a good deal of time until I’m due to move on from the factory, but this has put a dampener on my post-epiphany burst of inspiration. To keep my spirits up, I have mama bake a Liechtensteiner cherry tart, which I presume was something Gustav Ritter may have enjoyed even if there are no sources to confirm it.
Three more weeks pass. The only lead I’ve gotten regarding an apprenticeship petered out after I deemed shipyard carpentry not close enough a discipline to upholstery for my purposes. A message of apology from Alexandra for her insensitivity during our hike has only inflamed my feelings of doubt. It is starting to look like the industry landscape has changed too much for me to easily secure an apprenticeship, or maybe I just don’t have the necessary contacts. My most optimistic hypothesis is that because I haven’t fulfilled the antecedent of completing my factory work, this avenue will remain closed until the proper time. For now, I think I’ll have to shift focus to other more minor antecedents to keep myself on track.
My first port of call is getting back into Chess, at which Ritter had a reputation for being fairly competent. I was good at it in elementary school, so I didn’t imagine it would be too hard to pick back up. I make an account on an online platform and get to taking on random opponents to raise my rankings. I quickly learn through a sequence of blowout losses that cheating must be rife on these sites, and as they say, if you can’t beat ‘em, keep a best move calculator open on your second display.
Additionally, while trawling an internet library for sources, I found that Ritter wrote occasional theater reviews for a moderately-circulated Vaduz newspaper. I’ve visited a handful of Auburn grocery stores and picked up two local newspapers which contain an arts section. These both have regular writers for their reviews, but thankfully, The Auburn Caller contains a community submissions column. I suppose this is intended for precocious college students and bored housewives, but if those groups are my competition I should be able to make it into these pages with not much sweat. I’ll get to writing something this week.
I should say that, though these pastimes I’ve accrued are unremarkable on their face, I’ve massively struggled to maintain motivation with them taking up much of my time outside of work. And work itself is a challenge. The manager has been hinting to me during our lunch break conversations that I should consider moving to the head office soon. Meanwhile, on the factory floor, my supervisor has reassigned me to quality control, which was semantically framed as a promotion, but which I suspect is a product of my unsuitability for operating crude machinery. It's fine. I’ve made peace with the difficulty. I’ll have plenty of time (and money) to pursue my interests once I have established my first business. For now, the stress stays, and I will have to cope with it. I’ll give it another year, as Gustav Ritter did, and I’m certain my devotion to this path will pay dividends.
…
My devotion has yet to pay dividends. I’m approaching the theoretical final month of my employment, and I’m still no closer to securing an apprenticeship (or for that matter, a column in the Caller). I find myself so exhausted after work that I often skip out on the minor antecedents I would usually throw myself into. No chess, no theater. Even when I do engage myself, my openers are sloppy and my mind irrecoverably wanders during the first lulls of the play. I have work in half an hour and I’m waiting on an Uber since I can’t be asked to walk, even with the weather being so pleasant. Good news though, I had sliced pears this morning. Maybe that’ll be the safety net for my faltering balance on Ritter’s tightrope.
The Uber arrives and carries me in. I head to my station as usual and work until lunch, where I’m approached by the manager. This isn’t abnormal, but he has seemed less enthusiastic for our chats as of late, and this time he invites me into his office rather than joining me at the table. I sit opposite him, feeling somewhat more intimidated than I had the first time I was in here. He explains that the company is unlikely to continue funding my training, given how peculiar it is for an intern to remain on as long as I have without moving into a salaried position. There are more qualified candidates for the production line out there, and supposedly the mutual benefit of our arrangement has stagnated. As he sees it, there’s no point keeping me on at the factory if I don’t intend to take up his offer of a role at the head office.
I’m not a dullard. I know he’s essentially firing me. Uncharacteristically, I consider the opportunity; it would certainly be a welcome relief from my weariness. But, no. Not when I’ve come this far on Ritter’s path – my path – already. Were I to quit, it would be the most egregious case of sunk cost fallacy I can imagine. So I decline, and we part ways. He thanks me for my work, and our lunchtime conversations, and I thank him for being open to my ideas. I walk home, not having the strength to interrupt the inertia of my trudge out of the factory doors until I reach the rental house and collapse on the sofa. Strangely, I cry. I’m not sure what I’m crying over, but I don’t stop until I fall asleep, and I wake up some nebulous stretch of time later with residue around my eyes and my hair in a mess
A week passes, and I accomplish nothing. I haven’t chased up any apprenticeships in months. I’ve been waking up too late to have sliced pears for breakfast. The net has fallen away. Now, the tightrope is thinning fiber-by-fiber, all while a flame creeps along it towards my feet, threatening to engulf me before I drop into the unknown abyss below. That is, unless I can restore my balance, pick up my pace, and flourish through the hoop to the safe platform on the other side. Fanciful thoughts, but I’m in no condition to do so. There’s little I can do if I’ve turned the key, tried the handle, and still the door to the next phase of my life refuses to open.
But as I’m shoveling a ready meal into my mouth at 3pm, I have the realization that there’s a way to break down the door. It’s a way that for my own cowardice and ignorance I’ve hesitated to entertain, but looking at things rationally, there’s little that serves as a better exemplar of a life defining event – as a deterministic catalyst. In Germany, several months into his apprenticeship, Gustav Ritter sustained life-threatening injuries from a horse riding accident. He and a friend were traveling through the Bavarian woods when the sight of a bear caused both their horses to panic and throw their riders. Although his companion was mostly unharmed, Ritter’s spine was fractured and he suffered a cerebral contusion. He survived, of course, with no permanent brain damage, but his posture was irreparably altered. Despite this, he was undeterred, and was able to found Ritterpolster not many years later.
No, not despite, because of this. This is an antecedent like no other, and I would be a hypocrite and a fool to let my fears obstruct my commitment to chaos theory and determinism. If this is to be my life, I must embrace all its facets – the good, the bad, and the unthinkable. I pick up my phone, and I send a message to Alexandra with the suggestion of a road trip.
…
She picks me up outside my house at noon. If her Instagram is to be believed, she earned her driving license not two weeks ago, which is reassuring, at least for my purposes. We travel north, towards Tennessee, and I’m naturally a little distracted from her attempts at conversation. I manage to tell her about my rough luck at work, and I let her twitter on about her new “they/them” partner. We avoid anything approaching philosophy.
Sometime late in the afternoon, I realize we’re on the last leg of our Interstate 65 journey. I propose that we pull over to a rest stop to eat before crossing state lines. Alexandra doesn’t see much point in it, but obliges anyway, supposing that rest stops are a core part of the road trip experience. She navigates off the highway a few miles up the road.
We order burgers, and Alexandra goes to the bathroom while I’m left to collect our food. I receive the tray and find a table. After a furtive glance over my shoulder, I remove the top bun of her burger and sprinkle crushed sleeping pills like salt over the patty. Courtesy of my mother’s medicine cabinet, they should be just enough to make my driver drowsy. She returns, eats the burger without detecting the intrusive ingredient, and indicates that we should get going. The sun’s going down outside, so I agree. Driving at night should help things along.
Thirty minutes back on the road and she’s still wide awake and nattering. Maybe the dose was too small, or maybe the drug hasn’t begun to act yet. I need this to happen before we transfer to safer roads. Alexandra notices I’m restless and checks in on me. I’m fine, I say. Fifteen more minutes and I see her yawn for the first time. The sun is practically over the horizon now. She turns on the radio in the hope of stimulation. Ten minutes later I see her eyelids getting heavy, but she shakes herself awake and keeps driving. Not long after that, she closes her eyes for two whole seconds, before they snap open and she declares that she needs to pull over immediately.
In a haste to get off the road, she makes a hard bank to the right. I hear the sharp screech of a car horn and the driver side buckles with a deafening crash. I feel my body lurch and I become in that moment more aware than ever of its purpose as a shell for my viscera. I’m smothered by an airbag. The car travels a little further before skidding to a halt and tipping on its side. I wait, in shock, not wanting to open my eyes. The airbag begins to deflate. Feeling returns. I’m severely bruised, but not particularly cut up as far as I can tell. I’m even able to move my arms and fingers just a little. My ears reattune to the sounds of the outside. There’s a commotion going on around the site of the accident while a cheery pop song still plays on the radio. My eyes open tentatively, and I stare for a moment at the flaccid airbag on the dashboard.
I feel a limb flop onto my shoulder, and it’s here that I remember I’m a passenger. I strain my sore neck to turn my head up to the driver’s seat. It is truly a brutal way to learn that our fates were not intertwined as those of Gustav Ritter and his friend that day, but my airbag was the only one that deployed.
I’m pulled from the wreckage.
…
Austin Fox Jr.
Email: austinfox@foxprops.com
Tel: (505)-644-6252
PROFILE
CEO of highly-regarded theater supply company FoxProps. Having built a specialist company from the ground up to where we turned a profit within only our second fiscal year, I am looking to lend my expertise and enthusiasm to further enterprise. I have always had a passion for predictive analytics, originating in my personal study of Chess-playing AI, and I believe that taking on the Chief Executive position at SANTREC would further cement your company’s status as a leader in its field.
EMPLOYMENT HISTORY
Chief Executive Officer — FoxProps (February 2031 – Present)
Spearheaded the manufacture of props affordable enough for local productions with quality befitting the biggest shows on Broadway.
Oversaw more than 250 employees across three factories, a central storage facility, and an in-house shipping division.
Senior Board Member — The Ally Sheridan Foundation (November 2028 – February 2031)
Maintained the legacy of my late friend Ally Sheridan through charitable work around women’s sports.
Oversaw campaigns, ensured integrity in fundraising practices, and acted as the foundation’s foremost contact with large media.
Quality Control Internship — Fort Carpet (May 2024 – April 2026)
Developed a keen awareness of the challenges of logistics and of achieving excellent results for clients.
EDUCATION
Bachelor of Business Studies (2019 – 2023)
University of Chicago
Chicago, IL
SKILLS
Decisive and adaptive in leadership roles
Exceptional eye for profit-generating opportunities
Extensive experience with interviews and general public relations
Knowledgeable in keeping abreast of industry to remain at the forefront
PERSONAL INTERESTS
Theatrical production
Chess
Professional lacrosse
Philosophy and concepts
