The Atmospherians by Alex McElroy (digital ebook reader txt) 📕

our men from the men who had jumped Dyson was opportunity. His gullible trust made me pity him—and fear for myself.

“We’re not helping these men out of some sadistic hunt for revenge,” he said. “We’re doing this—at least, I’m doing this, and I can’t speak for you—for men like my father. For men so depleted by shit luck and terrible jobs and depression they can’t stay awake on the road. Do you know how many men are killing themselves every day?”

“Do you know how many are killing women each day?”

“That’s what I’m saying,” he said.

“It’s not what you said.”

“Don’t forget about man hordes. Thousands of new hordes each week. They’re a sign of something deeply wrong in the souls of men today. And it’s only gonna get worse if we don’t take care of it.”

Suicides, murders, and hordes. These problems seemed far greater than anything we could correct. “We’re only two people,” I said.

“Revolutions have started with fewer,” he said. “First we perfect a model of rehabilitative love and compassion for twelve men; then we broaden the scope and recruit. The more men we bring in, the fewer there are in the world harassing women and killing themselves.”

“So our recruits are suicidal harassers.”

“Our recruits are human,” he said, as stern as a sledgehammer.

Unemployed and adrift, with three tender ribs, a year away from showing up at my doorstep, Dyson applied to work as a certified Listener for a company called We Hear You. We Hear You—known as WHY—paired freelance Listeners with its pool of clients in need of affordable therapy. Listener certification required an online credit check, zero professional recommendations, a two-hour animated tutorial, and a multiple-choice quiz. He video-called his first client ten minutes after completing the quiz.

One-on-one sessions paid very little money—he needed to see at least eleven people a day, every day, to meet rent—though he soon advanced to group sessions, the real moneymakers.

“But it wasn’t about money,” he told me. “It was about helping people—on my schedule. I always admired you for giving back to your followers. This was my chance to give back, to reach tons of people at once.” His cohort consisted entirely of middle-aged white men—men like the men he’d known at the dive. He knew how to talk to these men, knew to be deferential and impressed, to repeat to them what they told him—to make them think they influenced him. The men were enrolled in the session to work through their emotional defenses and wounds.

“They were enrolled or they enrolled on their own?” I asked.

“You know what I mean,” he said.

I certainly didn’t.

According to Dyson, the men were pitiable cases, out of work and divorced, estranged from their children, emotionally stunted and incomprehensibly angry. They admired Dyson, according to Dyson, because he was the first man in their lives who treated them with kindness and care. He took their concerns seriously—and it helped that he’d been on TV. They couldn’t believe that a “movie star” found value in their lives. After years in L.A., he had built up a cache of acting truisms, which he tossed to the men like fish to seals:

You only get the parts you try out for.

To inhabit someone else, you must be yourself first.

It’s who you are when the camera’s not rolling that counts.

However, the men returned to their weekly sessions deflated. In those sessions they were gentle and tender, but away from Dyson they succumbed to frustration, bitterness, rage, alienating the people in their lives—those who remained. What they needed, according to Dyson, was structure and love. They could never receive proper structure and love, according to Dyson, outside of their sessions, not meaningfully at least, and after weeks of seeing their progress torpedoed by time apart it became clear that if they wanted to get better, truly get better, they needed to insulate themselves from everyday triggers and come together in a protected environment where they could be valued for being tender and gentle humans.

So Dyson invited them to his grandparents’ property.

twelve terrible men

DYSON POSITED TWELVE archetypes of terrible men. If we could prove ourselves capable of turning each type of terrible man into a good man then we could, reasonably, transform any man into a good man. Proof of concept would attract attention from investors looking to finance philanthropic causes.

“So this is about getting rich?” I asked. Dyson and I were sitting outside on the porch after dinner. Barney lay draped over his thigh, sleeping.

“Wealth helps,” he said, like it was a phrase everyone used. “Wealth helps.”

The twelve archetypes were:

Stubborn Man

Righteous Man

Accommodating Man

Military Man

Workaholic Man

Sports Man

Negligent Dad

Yoga Man

College Man

Addict Man

Professor Man

Cheater Man

Each of our men fell into one of these categories. It’s how they were selected.

“But why did they select us?” I asked. I still couldn’t fathom anyone coming here. I may have bailed on my life to join Dyson, but he was my oldest friend. I felt beholden to him. My apartment was under threat; I had come here for safety. I doubt these men had ever truly felt threatened. Surely they hadn’t felt threatened at home. What could make twelve men—twelve terrible men—abandon their comforts to come live in the woods?

“Their lives are not comfortable,” Dyson told me. “They all live alone. They’re desperate for meaning in their lives. For connection. They need community and they can’t find it on their own. Most of these men are unemployed. They’re about to be thrown in the street. Their families—those who still talk to their families—gave up on them years ago.”

“They must want more than community.”

“All anyone wants is community. To be loved and respected by others.” An unspoken and stuck in his throat like a wad of gum. He was hiding something.

“What else do people want?” I asked.

“I may have promised them job training. Skills they can take back into the world.”

“I don’t know how to train people for jobs.”

“You know much more than you think you do.”

“What kind of jobs?”

“All that matters is that we stay confident.”

“Dyson.”

He