by Alex McElroy
Desires: To find a friendship like the one he shared with his brother
Sign of Completion: Humility
ACCOMMODATING MAN: Peter Minston
Past Employment: Grocery store clerk
Past Loves: Darla Janice (requited, one kiss)
Greatest Regret: Overconsumption of avocados
Greatest Grief: Loss of mother
Desires: Respect
Sign of Completion: Assertive communication
MILITARY MAN: Leon Cranch
Past Employment: Marine
Past Loves: His brothers
Greatest Regret: Smuggling contraband booze for his brothers
Greatest Grief: Dishonorable discharge
Desires: Return to service
Sign of Completion: Acceptance
WORKAHOLIC MAN: Dr. Mapplethorpe Lang
Past Employment: Family physician
Past Loves: Elly Delano (divorced)
Greatest Regret: Demanding his employees work during hurricane
Greatest Grief: Death of his receptionist, Susan Lane
Desires: Absolution
Sign of Completion: Peace of mind
SPORTS MAN: Hughie Mintz
Past Employment: Gym teacher
Past Loves: Jane Kling (divorced)
Greatest Regret: Missing two free throws in State Championship semifinal
Greatest Grief: Fathering an uncoordinated son
Desires: Athletic recognition
Sign of Completion: Acceptance of past failures
NEGLIGENT DAD: Kevin Sweston
Past Employment: Deliveryman
Past Loves: N/A
Greatest Regret: Missing every major event of his daughters’ lives
Greatest Grief: Lack of handsomeness
Desires: Attention
Sign of Completion: Remorse
YOGA MAN: William Gremb
Past Employment: “Freed Spirit”
Past Loves: Humanity
Greatest Regret: Ever regretting anything
Greatest Grief: What we do to our hearts
Desires: No desire
Sign of Completion: Practical goals
COLLEGE MAN: David Simplesun
Past Employment: Boat dealership owner
Past Loves: The Nebraska Cornhuskers
Greatest Regret: Leaving Lincoln
Greatest Grief: Losing the Chi Phi keg stand championship
Desires: To be twenty again
Sign of Completion: Change of wardrobe
ADDICT MAN: Mack March
Past Employment: Divorce attorney
Past Loves: Cocaine
Greatest Regret: The Hendershot Case
Greatest Grief: His children’s refusal to forgive him
Desires: Stability
Sign of Completion: Patience
PROFESSOR MAN: Lawrence Footbridge
Past Employment: Tenured professor
Past Loves: Students, too many students
Greatest Regret: Getting caught
Greatest Grief: The imposition of bureaucracy on true love
Desires: Students, too many students
Sign of Completion: Professionalism
CHEATER MAN: Benjamin Tire
Past Employment: Finance manager
Past Loves: Ellen Jenkins (divorced)
Greatest Regret: Tamara Rincon (mistress)
Greatest Grief: Hurting Ellen
Desires: To get Ellen back
Sign of Completion: Accepting he never cared about Ellen
Dyson’s list hardly seemed comprehensive. What about Rich Men and Predator Men and Feeble Men and Undeterrable Men and Desiring Men and Ugly Men and Pitiful Men and Boring Men and Unemployable Men and Chivalrous Men and Bellicose Men and, the worst men of all, Well-Meaning Men? But the last thing I wanted was more men at the camp. So I flattered Dyson, told him I admired his list and his vision, that he was absolutely correct, should we reform these twelve types of men then we could reform anyone, that funding would roll in by the millions. He was pleased by my assessment, and I was pleased that I made him believe me.
eight
THAT EVENING, I willed myself awake around one in the morning. Dyson snored gloriously, his body as still as a shadow. I snuck outside cautiously, cranking a flashlight. Moonlight carved through the trees and animals howled, daring me to return to the cabin, but I kept cranking the flashlight, aiming the light at my feet until I stood before the fallen tree where I’d thrown my phone. Learning about the men did not bring me the peace I desired, and I returned to the woods longing for the familiarity of Cassandra’s voice—and for the old life contained within it.
Dirt crusted the corners of the screen. I hit the power button. The blue light of the screen set the forest aglow. Cassandra had not left a message. And I hesitated to return her call, fearing she’d called by accident, or as a joke. Nevertheless, I dialed her number. She owed me a conversation. She owed me hundreds of conversations. And apologies. And cash for the money she had made off her interviews about me. Cassandra’s guided meditations had once been a critical part of my skin-care regimen—nearly 70 percent of her clients came via my referrals. I’d always had more followers than her, but she wielded more influence. She was a child of wealth who knew how to impress established influencers and the moneyed. I admired the ease she showed around power. She never expressed undue emotion in conversation. She said, That’s funny, rather than laughing. She used phrases like how horrid and what are they thinking and pardon. She was moved, never impressed. Nothing on her ever itched. Instead of using perfume, she dabbed her wrists with fruit-infused water, and, in the summer, confused butterflies would alight on her palms, hunting for nectar. It would have been easy to resent her, but I didn’t resent her. I resented my life for not being hers. I resented myself for missing her, despite the pain she had caused me.
The rings piled like sand in my ears. I had gotten so used to her declining my calls that every subsequent ring seemed like a miracle.
“This is Cassandra Hanson,” she said. “Heeelllloo?”
I fumbled my phone but rushed it back to my ear. “Cassandra,” I said. “It’s Sasha.”
“Sasha?”
“Sasha Marcus,” I muttered, more defeated than I liked.
“I’m kidding,” she said. “It’s wonderful hearing your voice. But be honest with me: Are you okay? Have you been drinking? I no longer talk to people when they’ve been drinking.”
“Do I sound like I’ve been drinking?”
“It’s never a good look to call someone so late.”
“Never too late for you. You’re nocturnal. That’s how you always described it.”
“I’m surprised you remember,” she said. “Things always seemed to… slip your mind.”
“This isn’t the first time I’ve called, you know. There must’ve been hundreds of calls these last few months. You must’ve been busy. Were you busy? You must’ve been too busy to talk to the woman who boosted your career.”
“Sasha, I know you’re going through something, but if you’re feeling bitter right now maybe it’s best you take some time for yourself. It’s not good for anyone’s cortisone levels to talk when we’re not at our best.”
“You’re the one who called me,” I reminded her. My voice lifted close to a shout, but I contained myself, worried she might hang up. “I’m not going through anything,” I said through my teeth. “I’m returning your call.”
“You really don’t sound well. Try me some other time.”
“Please don’t go.” I must’ve sounded as desperate as I was.
She sighed. “My publicist would throw a fit if she knew we were talking.”
“Our little secret,” I said.
“An opportunity presented itself and I think you’d be perfect. A good friend of mine, the CEO of a start-up, is looking for a spokeswoman. It’s not right for me, sadly, but I mentioned your name and they expressed immediate interest. They’re called DAM. D-A-M. Defense Against—”
“Let me stop you.” I felt a shock of pride. I didn’t want her to save me; I didn’t want her pity. I wanted her envy. “I’m calling to tell you I’m involved in something transformative.”
“Transformative?” She sounded authentically curious.
“It’s going to change everything. No hyperbole whatsoever. America. The world. The universe. Nothing will ever be the same.”
“May I ask what it is?”
“We’re still vetting investors. My lips are sealed. Tight as a tomb.”
“That sounds promising.”
“If it were up to me, I’d bring you on board.” I could hear her squirming, desperate to know more. “Your skill set would be so valuable for us. But there’s just no room on the boat.”
“Oh, don’t for an instant think you need to bring me on board. I’m just so happy for you! This is incredible news. I always knew you’d land on your feet.”
She was, somehow, authentically happy for me. This seemed even crueler than mockery.
“And you,” I said. “I’m being so rude. Congratulations are in order. Your own show.”
“Online only—for now. But yes. I have a lot to be grateful for. My path has widened.”
“Sometimes I wonder—how did it happen? How did Cassandra Hanson rise to such impossible heights? Did she get there on her own? Or did anyone help her?”
“I appreciate everything you did for me, Sasha. I truly do. You were a very important person for me. And it pains me to hear you talking like this. Because clearly good things are happening for you, but you still haven’t put in the work to reckon with how you treated me.”
“Reckon with my friends exploiting me?”
“You weren’t cut out for this, Sasha. I know how conceited that sounds—as if I’m better than you. I only mean that we’re different. I say this because I care so much about your well-being. You couldn’t create a holistic self. It’s a very difficult task, and most people aren’t capable of achieving holisticity. You shouldn’t feel bad for failing. Falling short. Not a failure. You came up a teensy bit short. And you need to accept who you are—and who you are wasn’t right for the career that you chose. Why feel ashamed? You didn’t know this at the time.”
“I was a different person in person. Everyone is different in person.”
“I’m not,” she said. “Because I’ve worked to ensure that I’m not.”
“You mean you’re always acting.”
“It’s not an act if it’s consistent.”
“It’s not a mask if it’s glued to your face.”
“It’s been lovely. A treat, really. Our friendship was always the tastiest fruit in my life. I’m going to give DAM your information—should changing the world fall through.”
“Hold on,” I said.
“What is it?”
“I love you,” I said, though I wasn’t sure why I said it. Perhaps I wanted her to feel bad for ignoring me. Perhaps I really did love her.
“I love you, too,” she said. “I love everyone.”
nine
I OFFERED TO pick up the men’s uniforms. “To save you the trouble,” I told Dyson. In truth my call with Cassandra had left me feeling embarrassed and bitter—and I thought a drive might clear my head. Dyson was reluctant to hand over the keys. I fed him a line he’d told me back in the mall: “This won’t work if we don’t trust each other.”
“I hate when you use me against me,” he said. But he needed the extra time. He had to chat with the men to finalize their travel arrangements, and there was still work to do on The Doctrine: a set of guidelines for the men. “Make sure you check the design on the uniforms,” he said. “These people weren’t my first choice.”
Cooped up in my apartment over the last few months, I’d become sheepish and brittle—I’d become a person I pitied—but the drive unlocked something ferocious in me. On the back roads, I sprayed waves of gravel and nearly vaulted the car into every ditch that I passed. What a dumb and dangerous thing: the car! What a joy to assume power over something so deadly, so heavy, so fun. Driving is an act of accepting you have no control. The car might skid on a splinter of ice and swivel you into a tree. The car might need a few stitches, a bumper, a buff of the hood. But that’s the end of you. Blam! Splat! An X over each eye, tongue slumming out of your mouth. I’d forgotten the pure, powerless pleasure of sitting behind a steering wheel, turning and twisting and revving and braking as if it made any difference. I skimmed the edge of death a half-dozen times before reaching the highway.
Apparently California is the home of the highway, the kind of highway that frees the mind and the soul—but it could never unleash me like a New Jersey highway. Route 80 and 287 and 1—the original!—were not merely roads in my life, but escape routes from the bramble of stop signs and tractor crossings and dirt paths gluing my hometown together. I zipped onto the highway liquored with giddiness, gunning Dyson’s hatchback until the steering wheel trembled. I passed everyone and blasted a pop radio station, sang along to a song I’d never heard in my life. The sky was a blank, blue sheet, the sun devoured by distance. I could’ve gone anywhere. Every exit offered a new life, lives that would surely be easier than whatever awaited me back at The Atmosphere, but I was angry: angry at Cassandra for her cheerful condescension. And I wanted to make The Atmosphere work, to prove to her I didn’t deserve her pity.
Dyson ordered uniforms from a mom-and-pop printing shop called Hertz Shirts. The store shared an aging strip mall containing a bodega, a Laundromat, an abandoned sub shop, and three CrossFit studios. Bulky men in tank tops were flipping tractor tires in the parking lot.
Hertz Shirts smelled of spearmint candies and ink. Enormous machines like titanium buffalos grazed behind the counter. A desktop computer grumbled next to the register. “Welcome,” said Mom and Pop, a pair of wizened white people who had aged into identical twins: they wore gray slacks and blue button-down shirts spotted with fingerprints.
“I’m picking up an order for Dyson Layne,” I said. The thrill of driving thundered inside me; my words shook with impatience. I wanted back on the road.
Pop retrieved a pair of plastic-wrapped bundles from the back.
“I need to check them,” I said.
“What’s to check?” asked Mom.
“Please open the package,” I said, then snapped my fingers when they stalled.
“We stand by our work,” she said.
Pop pulled a box cutter out of his back pocket and buried the blade into the wrapping. He cut cleanly through the center without speaking.
Inside the first bundle were tracksuits, T-shirts, and mesh shorts for the men. The tracksuits and T-shirts were stone colored, the mesh shorts as red as strawberries. The Atmospherians was stitched into the breasts of the shirts. The second bundle held T-shirts, zip hoodies, and shorts for Dyson and me. Our color scheme inverted the men’s: silver bottoms, red tops. Our names were stitched beneath The Atmospherians. Spelled correctly—but a bothersome flourish had been added to the final a in Sasha.
Mom asked if I was satisfied.
The flourish was a meaningless mistake. Any other day, I would have thanked Mom and politely left. But I was still angry about my call with Cassandra. My life seemed petty and small compared to hers, and I wanted to exert power over someone, to feel how I imagined Cassandra must’ve felt talking to me. “There’s a problem with the a in Sasha.”
“That’s traditional script,” said Mom. “It must look unfamiliar to someone your age.”
“That tail is excessive. It’s whimsical, unscrupulous. I can’t accept it in this condition.”
“Perfect condition,” Mom snapped.
“I have a reputation to uphold,” I said, though I certainly didn’t.
“So you don’t want the clothing?” Mom asked.
“No, I don’t want it,” I said. “But I need it today. You’ve backed me into a corner. I hope you’re proud of yourselves.” I handed over Dyson’s credit card.
Mom examined the card.
If I had been more polite I doubt she would have studied the card so exhaustively. But she controlled the room now, and gave the card to Pop for approval—disapproval. “Your name is Sasha?” she said.
“That’s right.”
Pop fanned his face with the card.
“This card isn’t Sasha’s,” said Mom.
“Dyson gave me his card to pick up the order.”
“Identity theft is on the rise,” Mom said.
Pop spoke his first words: “I was telling Mom the other day about identity thieves who behead their victims and feed their bodies to carnivorous pigs and escape with their cash and their credit cards and their clothes and run to places like Cuba and Sudan before anyone’s wiser.”
“This is my partner’s card.”
“We used to say husband,” Pop said, still fanning his face.
“Business partner. We run a small business. We use Dyson’s card for expenses.”
“How about you show some I.D.”
“It’s Dyson’s card. He made the order. You stitched his name onto a dozen shirts—correctly, I might add, without a whimsical flourish.” My best and worst selves always veered close to each other: obsessive, critical, stubborn. And their resistance only made me more reckless and stubborn.
“You’re sure protesting a lot.”
“If I were an identity thief, wouldn’t I buy a TV or fancy shoes?”
“I can’t pretend to imagine the logic of thieves,” Mom said.
“The problem with the identity thieves is police never know who to track.”
“Maybe Sasha is Dyson’s wife,” Mom said to Pop.
“Maybe Sasha and Dyson are stuffed in her trunk,” he replied.
“I’m Sasha!” I shouted.
“Then let us see your I.D.”
“All chopped and zipped into Baggies,” Pop said.
“You’ll run the card if I show you my license?”
They nodded in unison.
Reluctantly, I handed it over.
Pop spelled my name aloud: “S-a-s-h-a M-a-r-c-u-s.” Mom typed my name into Google and gasped at the results.
I spread both hands over the monitor. “That’s all lies,” I said.