The Atmospherians

by Alex McElroy

  Three weeks ago, Blair received a letter claiming Dyson had been murdered by Sasha in a power grab. There was no return address. No name at the bottom. But its directives were clear: Expose The Atmosphere. Expose Sasha Marcus. Dyson deserved justice—and peace. Blair was proud to be the one to do these things.

  At the mall’s entrance, two men in jeans and gray T-shirts reading Atmospherians opened the doors. A tall wooden desk split this area from a department store behind it. Inside the store, clothing racks and tables and displays and mannequins had been replaced by men in monochrome tracksuits of different colors. They appeared sickly under harsh yellow light—malnourished, an accusation the letter had made. Paired together, they nodded vigorously, counting on their fingers as if debating subjects of grave importance. Blair angled his ear toward the store to make out their words.

  A receptionist stepped into the space between him and the other men. He placed a fizzing orange drink in Blair’s hand. “For your jet lag,” he said. “Full of electrolytes, complex carbs, everything you need to return to yourself.”

  “Plain water would be fine.”

  “This is water!” The receptionist winked. “Plus something else.”

  Blair sipped. He brushed the froth off his lip. “You can’t give me water?”

  “You need to finish your first drink. Gluttony breeds ingratitude.”

  Blair chugged the glass, his neck pumping as the orange liquid spilled over his chin.

  “Very impressive,” the receptionist said. He slipped into a side door, returned with a bottle of water. “Your reward,” he said. “That was very impressive, indeed.”

  Blair spent an hour scrunched in a stiff, cushioned chair. Hung on the walls of the waiting room were posters of men knitting sweaters, drinking tea, petting cats, doing yoga, jogging. Discover the Self You’ve Denied Yourself, they read; The Atmosphere was below that. Every ten minutes, one of the receptionists would spray and wipe down the glass entrance doors, alternating each time. Softly bombastic music played through the speakers, drifting between jagged intensity and shallow calms. It reminded him of an action movie soundtrack.

  The receptionists encouraged Blair to read the aged magazines fanned across the coffee table. “There are some excellent profiles of Sasha.” Blair flipped through a Time from the previous year. Everything but Sasha’s profile spread had been torn out of the issue. Same for the other magazines.

  Blair knew better than to brush off the receptionists and the drink and the magazines as harmless idiosyncrasies. He prided himself on noticing threats that others ignored. Most people never questioned the world, never poked holes in its design. They preferred to vilify those who made careers out of poking such holes. He fancied himself a truth teller. Unofficially: a reporter. He ran a Facebook page called The Pure Source, where he posted videos debunking and verifying conspiracies across the political spectrum: POW-MIA (disproven), the Koch Foundation funding protestors (proven), climate change denial (disproven), 9/11 (proven and disproven). A small squadron of followers returned to his page regularly, suggesting stories for him to investigate and incoherently debating in the comments. His traffic had been climbing over the last few months thanks to a pair of undercover videos: He had exposed a racist restaurant owner and a small chapter of socialists in small-town Oregon. The recent success had made him confident about an Atmospherians story—and excited him about the career prospects that would follow. The week prior, he had lost his cashier gig to a self-checkout machine. Rent was a month late—and only getting later. If done right, though, a story on the Atmospherians—an exposé—would net him enough to cover rent for a year, and likely lead to more lucrative work.

  He hefted his backpack onto his lap and unzipped it just wide enough to remove a small spiral notebook. Miniature cameras, microphones, and his laptop gave the bag its bulk. The receptionist glanced at him. He slipped the backpack under his chair. He’d signed a contract agreeing not to make any visual or audio recordings.

  Past journalists had visited The Atmosphere and left with puff pieces highlighting the hardship Sasha had overcome to build the program. In slick documentaries, she led filmmakers around the exterior of the mall; she allowed a brief glimpse into the carpentry warehouse where men built the Atmospherian shed kits that helped fund the program. On camera, she let free a single, poignant tear when asked about Dyson. The interviewers never challenged her version of the events: Dyson suffered a heart attack while swimming at The Atmosphere’s community pond. Attempts to recover his body by law enforcement proved unsuccessful; the pond was magnitudes deeper than originally assumed.

  Blair angled his body away from the receptionists and scribbled in his notebook:

  • Why give mysterious drink—who profits?

  • Why not show me my room?

  • What is happening in dept. store?

  • Receptionists don’t give names—keep me guessing, off-balance?

  A thin man of medium height stood before him with his hands clasped. He wore a shiny green button-down and black dress pants. A frayed white tube sock hung over his belt. A rust-colored stain shaded its heel. “Randy Dent,” he said. “We had a chat on the phone.”

  Blair extended his hand. “I’ve been waiting awhile.”

  The water receptionist lifted Blair’s backpack. “Heavy,” he sighed.

  “I can hold on to it,” Blair said.

  “Sorry,” Randy said. “No backpacks inside. Or phones. You read the contract, right?”

  The receptionist opened his palm to Blair. He passed over his phone.

  “And your other pocket?” Randy asked.

  “An inhaler.”

  “You didn’t disclose any medical issues.”

  “It’s minor,” Blair said. He eyed his backpack. “I should really change my shirt,” he said. “Is there a bathroom nearby?” Maybe he could slip on a microphone if left alone for a second.

  “Change here,” Randy said. “We’re all men.”

  The receptionist lifted the backpack for Blair to grab clothes. “We’re all men,” he said.

  Blair sniffed under his arms. “It’s not that bad,” he said.

  “There’s so little time as it is.” Randy wrapped his arm around Blair and pulled him close, in a brotherly way, and walked him into the department store.

  * * *

  All the men in the store had smooth, clean-shaven faces, shaggy hair past their ears. A man in blue sprayed cologne over his head. The scent irritated Blair’s nose. He kept bracing himself to bump into someone, but the men contorted their bodies and backed out of the way, pinning their arms to their chests to prevent any contact.

  In the mall’s main promenade, the lighting changed to a fluorescent so white it turned Blair’s skin blue. He was surprised that they were on the second floor. All the stores had been remodeled. A sign above the nearest one read Registration.

  Randy gripped Blair’s shoulder. “Used to be an engraving store. Precious Memories, where you carve your grandmother’s name on a plate. Sasha thought, What better place for registration? The stores have their own energies. Souls. The first few months, we housed registration in a former McDonald’s. Our psychiatrist met with clients in an old Bath and Body Works. But everything seemed… broken. The men were agitated. So Sasha—she’s truly incredible—suggested we match our aims with the previous stores. And I tell you, overnight,” he snapped, “everything changed.”

  Blair nodded along. It was important to act impressed. It would prove he wasn’t a threat, that, someday, he might really believe this nonsense.

  In one store, men in gray tracksuits spread out on a field tossing footballs to one another. “Champ’s Sports,” Randy said. “Now it’s the Fitness Field. Real grass, too.”

  A man in a red T-shirt and shorts blew a whistle. The men in gray formed two lines and followed him on a jog through the promenade. Men in yellow replaced the Grays in the Fitness Field. They retrieved the discarded footballs and began playing catch.

  “Are
n’t you against traditional masculinity?” Blair hoped to trap him in a contradiction.

  “Sports are fun. We’re not against fun. The problem’s when men get competitive. All the pressure and stress—self-hatred born out of unrealistic demands. Here, we only ask that men try their best, have some fun—whatever that means in the moment.” Inside, the men tossed the footballs off target. The balls blumped off their hands. They cheered despite their mistakes.

  “What about running?” Blair asked. “For some men it might be dangerous.”

  “I tell you, Blair, this place—I wouldn’t be breathing if it wasn’t for Sasha—”

  “And Dyson.”

  A mournful grimace flashed on Randy’s face. “I came here with a lot of anger—buckets and buckets of rage. Enough to gum up a canyon. If you asked me six years ago if I’d ever feel this good, I would’ve bit off your hand. But you know what happened? I said yes after a life saying no. You run a bit, throw a football, seems dumb when you say it out loud, but you just need to do it. Embrace it, Blair. You’ll be amazed what you’re capable of.”

  * * *

  Randy walked so close to Blair that the backs of their hands repeatedly grazed. His deep, meaty breath clouded their conversation. Blair couldn’t say anything about the suffocating proximity without arousing suspicion. But he asked if he could use the first restroom they passed. In a stall, he huddled over his thighs and scribbled into his notebook.

  • Film soundtrack through the speakers—unclear?

  • Signs on ceiling point in direction of Freedom, Self-Actualization, Intentions

  • Men wearing blue spritzing cologne

  • Directory map replaced with scrolling list of men’s names ranked beside percentages

  • TMA? RAX? WAR?

  Randy knocked on the door. “It’s been a while,” he said. “Everything working?”

  “Coming right out.”

  Throughout the tour, Randy held a demented fascination with the history of the stores: the Meditation Studio was a Yankee Candle, Primary Care was a Foot Locker, the Call Center was a Verizon, the Art Studio was an Art World, the Tailor was Build-A-Bear Workshop, Security had been a Justice, Compliment Speed-Dating was the McDonald’s where registration had once been, Radiology was The Sharper Image, and the Coding Lab was the Apple Store. The entire third floor was devoted to designing and building sheds. Randy found their transformations ironic and fitting, both too perfect and unbelievable. He praised the work they did teaching men to embrace life in the mall—a historically feminine site that men had been socialized to avoid. His excitement left Blair no room to talk about Dyson. He still hadn’t seen any photos of Dyson. The letter had advised him to look for such photos: their absence would prove that The Atmosphere was hiding something.

  Blair paused at an unmarked store. Its windows were painted black.

  “Victoria’s Secret,” said Randy. “We call it The Crucible now. It’s a place for men to test how far they’ve come. To really repress their most flagrant desires.”

  Blair imagined sticky seats, peep shows playing for quarters.

  “Available only to Elite Atmospherians. A lot of hard work goes into getting there.”

  “What type of work?”

  “Dangerous work,” Randy said. After a long silence, he laughed. “Don’t look so scared all the time. I bet you think we’re a cult. Everyone thinks we’re a cult. I’d think it, too, if this place didn’t save my life. But Blair: We’re a rehabilitation facility. That’s it. The only thing that sets us apart is that we’re rehabbing men for being men. It’s radical work.”

  “Rehab facilities don’t house clients for years.”

  “And that’s why people relapse,” he said. “Trust me. We care deeply about our men—and we can care about you. Isn’t that why you’re here? You want someone to care about you?”

  “I’m here because I’m looking for the truth.” He regretted it immediately.

  “Exactly,” said Randy. “Now you get it.”

  In the center of the mall, the second level split open, offering a view of the main pavilion below. Hundreds of folding chairs fanned out in front of a rustic wooden stage. Onstage was a scarecrow. A loose red dress hung over its stick arms and single stick leg. A wig was propped on its Styrofoam head, where a face had been drawn on with Sharpie.

  Escalators stitched all three floors together. A massive poster of Sasha hung from the rafters. In it, she stood before a chipped brown barn with her palms to the sky. Hearts were carved in the wall at her back. She appeared receptive and kind, transcendent, brown hair flowing past her shoulders. She wore pale blue jeans and a black Atmospherians T-shirt, like a band roadie or bartender. Many critics online insisted that Sasha controlled the men through sexually striking photos of herself. But Blair didn’t see it. Not her. She seemed more imposing than attractive.

  “I’m sorry!” someone shouted downstairs. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry, okay?!” The man wore a gray tracksuit. Two men in red were dragging him by the arms. The Gray twisted and twitched against their grips, but the two men wouldn’t let go.

  “What’d he do?” Blair asked.

  “I’m not God, Blair. You can’t expect me to know everything—that’s Sasha’s job.”

  The man’s screaming grew louder.

  “I’d like to get to my room,” Blair said. “It’s been such a long day—I need to unwind.”

  “We’ve only seen one wing,” said Randy.

  “You can show me the other wings later.”

  “I canceled meetings for this.”

  Blair’s chest tightened. “Maybe someone else can show me around.”

  “It hurts me to see such blatant self-sabotage, Blair. You came here for something, right? You came here to find what was missing. Who was missing. Now you’re saying you want to give up on that? On yourself?”

  “What did that man downstairs do wrong?”

  “You’re always so ready to see the worst in us,” Randy said.

  The soundtrack cut out. The mall slipped into silence, like a bath after a body slipped in.

  “Lucky you,” said Randy.

  “The Final Countdown” blasted out of the speakers. The floor rumbled. Blair clutched the railing for stability. Men stormed the escalator. They spilled to the center of the pavilion from every direction, seating themselves on the folding chairs. In the first two rows, the men wore green—administrators, like Randy. Behind them were bands of red, purple, blue, gray, black, yellow, and pink.

  The lights dimmed. The music cut out again. A spotlight tunneled onto the scarecrow in the center of the stage. Two Reds ran onstage and pulled the curtains aside. Behind it was a video screen the size of a box truck. Onscreen were the rankings Blair had seen on the directory map, names listed beside percentages and three-letter abbreviations. The image switched to a photo of Sasha posing with two smiling men in tracksuits. Then a photo of men building a shed in a meadow. Then men tossing footballs in the Fitness Field. A man spoon-feeding a baby. Sasha lowering her hand to the head of a man kneeling before her. Briefly: Dyson at a mirror sitting for makeup before a shoot.

  Sasha’s voice emerged over the loudspeakers: “Welcome to today’s Power In Emotions Session. I’m so proud of you for coming today. It takes courage to work on yourselves. Remember: true courage is the child of cowardice. You all once fathered her well in your heart.”

  The men applauded rabidly.

  She said, “Let’s welcome Henderson Blue onstage to open today’s discussion.”

  A salt-haired man in a blue tracksuit marched to the stage. He nodded at the video screen—now an image of Sasha in a hard hat cutting an enormous ribbon with scissors the size of a truck—then knelt before the scarecrow. He retrieved a microphone from under its dress and gazed into the scarecrow’s Styrofoam head. “Julia,” he said. “I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am for how you felt when we were together.”

  “Be specific,” said Sasha.

  “I know you never think I
helped you in the house—you thought I thought those tasks were beneath me. Julia: You were the goldenest light of my life. You never saw how much I cared about you because it was hard for me to show my emotions. I tried. I expressed myself through the movies I asked you to watch, but you refused because they made you uncomfortable. I was trying. I had a father. And he was demanding and that made me demand things from you that you didn’t think you could give. I hated myself.” Soon he was weeping too deeply to continue speaking.

  “That’s enough,” said Sasha.

  The Blue sniffled and cried into the microphone. Two Reds dragged him offstage.

  “What a difficult moment for Henderson,” Sasha said. “Please show him support.”

  The audience clapped soberly.

  “But remember,” she said. “Openings should never be self-important. We do not apologize for how the other person felt but for what we did. Apologies are never about the apologist’s feelings. I had hoped Henderson would give our guest a proper model for how to open. But perhaps our guest is lucky—we learn even more from mistakes.”

  The spotlight swung over to Blair. The men angled their heads at him, as if tugged by hundreds of strings. A man in a black tracksuit squeezed Blair’s hands around a microphone.

  “Guest,” said Sasha. “Please tell us your name.”

  In a feeble, nervous voice, Blair stated his name. It echoed through the mall.

  “Welcome, Blair,” said Sasha. Onscreen, she led men on a run. “Tell me: What do you do for a living?”

  Blair backed away from the railing, but Randy gripped his shoulder, held him in place. He guided the microphone back to Blair’s mouth: “I’m between jobs right now.”