The Atmospherians

by Alex McElroy

  I shivered, icy with pride. “No higher calling,” I said.

  “We don’t intend to exploit you.”

  “I’m just trying to understand—I’ll be in the ads for the app?”

  “It’s far more than an app,” said María.

  “We will compensate you competitively for the emotional toll. Physical, too. We’ll get you an on-site counselor—and a masseuse. Have you even seen anyone since the incident?”

  “There wasn’t any time,” I said. “Or money.”

  “Soon there won’t be much you can’t afford,” Roger said.

  “The offer includes lifetime housing at the DAM campus,” María said.

  “We think you would benefit greatly from the amenities offered by on-campus living.”

  “Do I get my own room?” I asked.

  “Room?” María said. “Sasha: You’ve earned far more than a room.”

  “You get your own furnished apartment.”

  “More of a penthouse.”

  “Your cabin days are over,” he said.

  The employees typed merrily on their laptops. Perhaps everything was okay. Perhaps this truly was a great opportunity. I had no reason to punish myself. María was right: I deserved to feel better. “Tell me what I do to be happy like them,” I said, nodding at the employees.

  “You stay here,” said Roger. “You inhale the air. That’s what DAM does for the soul.”

  The world he promised—the safety, the stardom, the second chance—seduced me more easily than I like to admit.

  thirty-three

  THAT EVENING, I ate dinner with María and her family. Her husband was a thick, lotion-scented white dude with a balding man’s buzz cut and veiny eyes. He worked as a freelance graphic designer, parented their two young children during the day. For dinner, he made seared salmon and roasted asparagus—drier and more elastic than the food Dyson prepared, though I didn’t complain. I ate how I ate around Dyson: hastily mashing the food together, flinging it down my throat. I finished before anyone else started.

  “Would you like more?” asked María.

  I was too embarrassed to say yes. “It was just so delicious,” I said.

  The husband spoke: “María tells me you were in some kind of cult before coming here.”

  She shot him a look.

  “She told you?” I asked.

  “No secrets at DAM.” He folded his hands over his heart. “Not a single secret on-site. We always say what we feel—even when it’s offensive or hurtful.” He gnawed the tines of his fork, trying, for reasons beyond me, to stoke some simmering fight between himself and María.

  “Maybe let’s not when there’s company, honey,” she said.

  “There’s been a misunderstanding,” I said.

  “Cult was shorthand,” she said. “A harmless joke.”

  “It sounded pretty serious to me,” said the husband.

  She gave me an eye-widening look: What can you do about husbands?

  “I wasn’t in a cult,” I said to him. “I was its leader. I wielded all the power.”

  “Prime position,” said the husband, laughing.

  “But my co-leader and I had different visions of how to move forward. You know how it is with cults.”

  The husband laughed again, as did María, though hers was a laugh of discomfort. He launched into the story of their lives—a story of personal disappointment disguised as triumph, a story, I gathered, he’d been trying to tell all evening. “We used to be in Rhode Island,” he said. “We had a great life there. Thought things couldn’t get better. I bet that’s what you’re feeling. You must have had a great setup at your… cult.”

  I flashed a wincing smile.

  “We had a three-bedroom Tudor, schools lined up for the sprouts; I was working at RISD. A dream life. The job I’d always wanted. I thought: Leave our friends and family? Never. I’m an East Coaster. My blood’s a hundred percent Atlantic Ocean. I never thought I’d move west. But I can’t tell you how…” His voice cracked. “I can’t tell you how much better life has become. There were so many things I thought were normal. I thought: That’s life. That’s how it is. But that’s not true. It can be better. I didn’t realize that until María took over and moved us to DAM. I didn’t want to. Nope. Not one bit. But I am so so grateful we’re…” Snot bubbled out of his nose as he wept.

  María mouthed an apology.

  I excused myself for the bathroom. Dyson had left me a voicemail. I listened to it to buy time away from the husband’s breakdown. Things have gotten interesting, Dyson said. Nerves rattled his voice. I wish you were here to help settle things down.

  “Fuck. You,” I whispered to my phone. I felt squeezed by his call and by dinner—I hadn’t been alone since I’d landed at DAM. María’s family grinned at me when I returned to the table. I told them I needed some rest. At the door, María apologized for her husband, but I assured her he wasn’t the issue. “We’ve all had husbands,” I said, flustered and eager to leave.

  “When were you married?” she asked.

  I kissed her cheeks good night. Behind her, the husband waved, his eyes red.

  My apartment was identical to María’s: cathedral ceilinged, walls blemish-less. A marble island in its open kitchen fed into an airy dining room. Bland canvasses the color of seaweed hung above the couches and chairs and the bed. In the center of one was the word Grow. In another: Inspire. A third and fourth: It Happens. They produced a light, draining sensation at the base of my skull that made me want to lie down. I stretched out in bed with my arms and legs extended in the shape of an X.

  * * *

  The next morning, I pampered myself beneath a lather of bubbles in my apartment’s whirlpool tub. I conditioned using a product that smelled of rosemary and mint. It had been months since I’d opened a dresser to find something other than athleisure, T-shirts, and jeans. But DAM had stocked my closet, and I put on the simplest outfit I could find: a breezy blue wrap and tights to hide the hair on my legs. I wore a touch of foundation and lipstick, mascara. It reminded me of life before The Atmosphere, before Lucas Devry, a life without pressure and guilt. I let my hair down—like María—which I had never done at the camp.

  María and I spent the day in a spacious conference room overlooking the quarry. We read through the script, practicing lines and rewriting passages. She treated me with patience. “This must be difficult,” she said, even when it no longer was. Rather, less difficult than she assumed. It had been months since I’d spent time with other women. The tension weighing on me at The Atmosphere was not, I realized, normal in everyday life. I knew the men far better than I knew María; nevertheless, our silences didn’t cause me anxiety. I didn’t clench my teeth when she spoke. She smelled nicer than the men, a subtle, fruity scent reminiscent of Cassandra.

  Over lunch, we talked about her childhood in the suburbs of Houston. She had been raised by staunchly middle-class parents. “Office to coffin types,” she said. As a child, she loved dismantling and rebuilding gadgets—cameras, TVs, radios, toasters—and built computers for her parents, her brother, her sister, herself. She used programming terms but was polite enough to explain when I looked confused. She said, “I know DAM might seem weird. I know the people here seem a little too happy. I felt the same way when I arrived. This isn’t how people are supposed to act at their jobs. But Sasha: This place has been wonderful for me. Roger hires based on skill alone—the diversity here, it’s not part of some grand PC conspiracy; he doesn’t check boxes or chase percentages, despite what some people think. DAM is how a company looks when people are given the chances they deserve.”

  “Your husband doesn’t seem to approve.”

  “He’s a white guy. He thinks a certain way about things. He’d kill me if I told you this. But after that cult stunt—and I’m sorry again—he deserves it.” She looked over her shoulder, to check for her husband. I was pleased she was inviting me into her confidence. She whispered, “He applied to work here, positive he’d get a jo
b on the graphics team, and he didn’t. He didn’t have the skills or experience and it’s taking some time to get over that.”

  An employee stepped up to our table rambling about an “urgent matter” he was reluctant to describe. He turned toward me and, with contrived shock, said, “Oh, my god, you’re Sasha! I’m Raúl. I’m on the accounting team—assistant to the director of finances, really.”

  “Weren’t you telling me something?” María asked. “An urgent matter.”

  “I can take care of it,” he said. He smiled at me.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said.

  “May I sit down?” he asked.

  “We’re eating,” said María. “And you have to finish whatever made you interrupt us.”

  He gave a slight bow and departed.

  “Starfuckers,” she muttered, smirking.

  “Can you blame them?” I waved a hand in front of my body, feigning vanity. “I’m joking. I’m really much more modest than this.”

  “Don’t be,” she replied. “I mean what I said. And everyone here: they really are starstruck. You’re an inspiration for the employees.” Part of the fun of being a star, María knew, was being reminded of your importance. She was flattering me, imploring me to dive headfirst into DAM—and I dived, just as she wanted.

  * * *

  Roger and I shared dinner at DAM’s fanciest restaurant, a dimly lit Italian place where the chefs made pasta from scratch and waiters smiled like they had guns at their backs.

  “You must love it here,” he said.

  “It’s been one day.”

  “Imagine more days, even better than this one.”

  I took a long drink of wine. “Roger, why are you doing this?”

  “I told you: to make the world safer.”

  “But that’s not the mission.” I’d spent the whole day memorizing lines, absorbing the purpose of DAM. Their mission sounded nothing like the safe internet he described. “You’re selling this as a way to protect sexists and racists from themselves.”

  He set down his fork. “Come with me on a journey, Sasha.”

  I pretended to buckle up.

  “Imagine a father who learns his son is gay when his son isn’t home. He sees something his son posted online, or is told by the father of a friend. What matters is that he’s furious—he’s regressive; some fathers are—and texts his son something cruel like, Come home right now, you… insert the word. Imagine the pain that boy has to live with for the rest of his life after reading that message. What if he feels so unloved, reading that text from his father, that he never comes home again? He runs away or—god forbid. Can you imagine the pain of that boy and the pain of the father? But what if that father, before he sends the message, is shown how hurtful that message would be to his son? A boy he truly loves. What if there’s a program that directs the father to photos of him and his son enjoying each other’s company, reminding the father how much him loves his son, no matter how the boy chooses to live? And now imagine that father deletes the text and writes: I love you I’m here if you ever need to talk.”

  “Were you that boy?”

  “Whether I was or wasn’t the boy doesn’t matter.”

  “So you were the boy?”

  “I wasn’t the boy, Sasha. My parents are wonderful, loving people, and they aren’t the point. The point is that in situations like the one I described, you and I, we understand how important those moments are. They really get us right here.” He knocked a fist on his chest. “But they don’t appeal to investors. Because if you’re rich enough to invest in a start-up, you’re likely racist and sexist, a homophobe, definitely a dullard and wimp. That’s how people make money in a world like ours. And: I admit. We focused our campaign on how DAM might help sexists and racists. I wish we didn’t have to pander to get money—but we do. That’s the reality of the industry, Sasha. It’s abhorrent that no one would toss me a dime if I told them I wanted DAM to protect vulnerable people on the internet.”

  “That’s so cynical.”

  “It’s only cynical if you’re naïve,” he said. “It’s only cynical if you’re unwilling to look honestly at the world. I know where the seed money comes from. I know who’s willing to pay, and for what. I’ve stretched myself thin as a ribbon to get to this point. Look at me, Sasha. I’m thirty-two years old and my beard’s a permanent frost. You know how you go gray at thirty-two? You go gray from seeing doors slammed in your face. From dial tones in your ear. I used to call DAM The Bridge—a way to cross over trolls. Nobody cared until I promised to protect assholes from themselves. Should I abandon the project because seed money eugenicists only care about their reputations? Should I give up because they’re terrified of their Fifteen Minutes of Shame?”

  “Eventually the investors will figure out you’re exploiting them.”

  Roger tore off a hunk of baguette and dunked it in olive oil, chewed slowly. “Sasha,” he said with his mouth full. “Everyone’s getting exploited. Me, you, María, even that dude you told to fuck off. I won’t say his name out of respect for you. But his life wasn’t great. And the investors—I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

  I heard Dyson in Roger: the ends justified the means. “There’s no guarantee it’ll ever protect the people you hope to protect,” I said. “The investors, those bigots and dullards, will find new ways to harass. Everyone finds a way. Lucas Devry died four months ago and I’m still getting emails from people who think I ought to be boiled alive. Your app—”

  “It’s way more than an app,” he said.

  “DAM will only stop someone who feels they have something to lose.”

  “You really think there are people who don’t have anything to lose?”

  My mind flashed to the men, though it seemed condescending to name them. They might have lost their families and jobs, their dignity, yet they had followed Dyson to The Atmosphere hopeful for transformation and change, believing some better future awaited them should they put in the work. What they had to lose was what I had to lose: the future. The redemption Dyson had promised them, and promised me, as bait to draw us to the camp. Roger was right. Everyone had something to lose. But the allowances he made for DAM disturbed me, and it disturbed me that despite his brilliance he couldn’t imagine those allowances hurting him.

  “What I think is that thinking that way is a trap,” I told him.

  He knocked the table next to my wineglass. “Wake up,” he said, legitimately angry. “We’re all already trapped. Better to create new ways of living inside of the trap. People are smart, Sasha. I have faith in humanity—I wouldn’t have built DAM if I didn’t think people can change. And once DAM exists people will learn its true value: reminding people to not speak out of pain, selfishness, rage. DAM will show us how to communicate with kindness and love.”

  “And you’ll be cashing the checks,” I said.

  “My parents were engineers with Microsoft. They invested wisely, and they left me a very generous inheritance. Without it I never would have had the money to start this company. The money DAM makes—I don’t care. Most of it goes to my employees.”

  “And to your castle.”

  “I’m no king.”

  “People talk about you like one.”

  Roger sighed, frustrated with me. “Sasha, I don’t control how people talk about me. I’d rather they praise me than resent me. And they praise me because I praise them. DAM is a supportive environment, and we expect that level of support from everyone here, including you.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “It’s the farthest thing from a threat.” He took a long drink of water. The ice clinked in his glass. “Everyone here would be grateful if you recognized how fortunate you are to be here. You were not in an ideal situation, with your men. With the news stories about you. And we’re willing to remake your reputation from the ground up.”

  I didn’t want to be beholden to anyone, especially not to him with his inflated notions of grandeur. “You must know that DAM won’t
change how anyone thinks. That father won’t become any less bigoted because DAM reminds him he loves his son.”

  “Worst-case scenario, Sasha: it doesn’t. Worst case he sees the pain he might cause and sends the message anyway, the sadist. But at least he had to think about it. At least he knows the consequences of his actions. Because that’s the problem, now: everyone has all these thoughts and ideas and they spread them without considering whether they might hurt someone else. Maybe we can’t unracist the racists. Maybe we can’t unsexist the sexists. But we can keep their words out of my head. Out of my employees’ heads. Out of yours. You’re telling me you wouldn’t want that man to know how his comments might hurt him? Imagine he sees he might lose his job. That he might be racked with shame over it. That people might troll him just as hard as he trolls you. Maybe he decides it’s not worth it. Doesn’t that sound like a much better life?”

  I drank the remains of my wine. “Then we would never have met.”

  He refilled my glass, then lifted his. “Cheers. To the world where we never met.”

  * * *

  In my apartment, I read over texts from Dyson. From what I could gather, the attack on the bus helped him convince the remaining men to stick around—he fed them an Us Against the World narrative that modestly deepened their commitment. But without me there to offer a comforting and stable unified front, Dyson’s control over the men had begun to crumble. Even through text, I could sense his desperation and fear.

  He texted: What’s happening?

  He texted: I just want to check in with you.

  He texted: To see how you’re doing.

  He texted: To tell you again how sorry I am.

  He texted: Things are getting out of control.

  I typed: Then figure it out. But I erased the message.