The Atmospherians by Alex McElroy (reading fiction .TXT) 📗

converts’ enthusiasm. Randy was last in line. “Thanks a million, honey,” he said when I poured. He winked. I nearly dug out his eye.

Dyson passed around copies of the daily schedule:

7:00 AM–8:00 AM

Physical Training

8:00 AM–9:00 AM

Breakfast

9:00 AM–12:00 PM

Morning Construction Session

12:00 PM–1:00 PM

Lunch

1:00 PM–2:00 PM

Power In Emotions (PIEs)

2:00 PM–2:15 PM

Job Training

2:15 PM–6:00 PM

Afternoon Construction Session

6:00 PM–7:00 PM

Dinner

7:00 PM–9:00 PM

Lecture Series

9:00 PM

Sleep

“We skipped Physical Training today, but don’t get complacent,” he said. “We’ll be up early tomorrow working your hearts. That’s a promise.”

The men groaned lovingly.

“Remember,” he said, “you men are here to transform your minds and your bodies.”

“How long before we’re in peak physical shape?” Gerry asked.

“You’ll be fit when you are,” Dyson said. “We’re not gonna rush you. Impatience is the seed of sabotage. Like I always tell you, if you want a garden, you need to buy soil, and if you want to buy soil…?” He paused, inviting the men to finish his sentence as one.

Together, they said, “You need to know where to park,” as if reciting scripture.

The aphorism didn’t make any sense. But meaning never mattered to Dyson. In his speeches and lectures, he aimed for the cadence of wisdom, wasted no time striving for content. Cadence was far more important than content. Cadence dug a trench in the mind. Establish cadence and any word you whispered would flow, convincing and clear.

Dyson introduced the ground rules. Each man would receive a personal residence and three meals every day. Each man would have to contribute to the community in exchange for food, education, and housing. Contributions included building ten additional sheds—one for each man—but no one could live alone until all the sheds were completed.

A spoon clanged a bowl. “Back in the bowl,” I said.

“I see you’re hungry,” Dyson said. “But you must delay gratification. It is the gifts we give to ourselves that cause the most pain over time.”

Gerry lowered his spoon.

Dyson outlined the Family Dinners. On Sunday evenings, we would gather for a ceremonial meal prepared by Dyson and me. The men had two responsibilities: to eat and enjoy.

Leon asked, “Will the Family Dinners be like yesterday’s?”

“Similar,” Dyson said. Then, with a laugh: “But maybe a little less messy.”

“Because I feel amazing today,” Gerry said.

“All that stuff about toxins was right on the money,” Leon said.

“Square in the numbers,” said Hughie.

“Sure, I’m a little dazed, but I don’t think I’ve felt so light in a while.”

“Whatever you put in the food,” Gerry said, “we needed it. I had so many toxins infecting my system—”

“So many toxins in my mind,” Leon added.

“My mind’s part of my system, Leon,” said Gerry. “There was so much in my system that needed to get the hell out.”

“I didn’t know they were weighing me down until they were gone,” Peter said.

“I’m light as lingerie now,” Randy said.

Dyson half-shrugged in my direction. I nodded my approval.

“Absolutely,” he told them. “We plan to maintain the same procedures from yesterday.”

“Emptying Out,” I said. This was what we’d called it as teenagers.

“Emptying Out,” Dyson confirmed. “Keeps your immune systems pure. No matter how healthy we eat and how hard we work, toxins will continue to slip into the body. Some people might find the practice disgusting. Some might say it’s dangerous and unnatural.” He spoke with an enthusiasm that disturbed me, that almost seemed directed toward me, as if he were trying to convince me, even more than the men, of the validity of his words. “Emptying Out is not some arbitrary task. It is the only proven defense against toxicity: both physical and mental.”

“I’m living proof,” Gerry said.

A chorus of Me, toos followed.

Dyson gave the men permission to eat. They rushed the gluey cereal to their mouths.

“Slower,” I said, with my eyes trained on Dyson.

“Learn to savor this time,” he said. “These three meals are yours to reflect on why you are here. Ask yourselves: What do I hope to achieve? Who will I become?”

After breakfast, the men cleared the barn of the tools and building materials to begin work on the sheds. They asked for blueprints. Dyson advised them to study the shape, integrity, and character of the sheds for at least three hours before starting construction. “Understand before you create,” he told them. He did not tell them he had lost the blueprints for the original sheds. “What you see will guide your construction. Every shed should resemble its father.”

He spoke to them from the door of the barn. I sat at the table watching for signs of discord, for cracks deepening between him and the men, but his body blocked my view of the others. I was angry at him for hiding the job training, and the way he spread his arms across the entrance—to prevent me from seeing the men and their reactions—frustrated me even more. He pulled the door close to his shoulder until he filled the opening fully. I could see only his back, only his thighs, only the white sky in which his head seemed to hover.

seventeen

A TENUOUS PEACE permeated the barn after Dyson left, the sort of calm that follows a storm, or precedes it. My head pulsed to the beat of men slamming hammers. I tried sketching notes for Power In Emotions—or PIEs, the therapy session I would lead that afternoon—but my hangover blotted out every thought. I stretched over the table and crossed my arms into a pillow, then plummeted into sleep. I dreamed of knuckles and fists pounding front doors, thousands of clenched hands drumming down on a plank of wood toothpicked over a hole in the earth.

“Grub time!” someone shouted from outside the barn. “Building sheds all morning. Looking for the grub we deserve.”

I rolled off the table, brushed the sleep out of my eyes. My arms tingled from having been slept on. Saliva caulked my mouth. My stomach was like a vise. I lurched to the door where the men crowded the entrance, sweating and