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

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