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

red. Their tracksuits, unzipped to the stomach, exposed forests of curly, graying hair.

Gerry rushed past me. “Where’s he at?” he said. He circled the table twice, ducked down to peer underneath it. Leon hooked his fingers into the fencing and peered inside the pantry.

“Dyson is preparing the evening lecture,” I said.

“I swore I saw him outside,” said someone else. “Coming this way.”

“Not even a minute ago,” Gerry added.

The men scrambled outside but returned disappointed.

“So Dyson’s really not coming?”

“Not even just to say hi?”

“You don’t need Dyson to eat,” I said.

“What’s for lunch?” Randy asked.

I couldn’t remember what we planned to feed them. But the bran flakes and the rice milk remained on the table. “Your stomachs are still very sensitive,” I said. “Please grab a bowl and form a line at the front.”

“You’re kidding me,” said Gerry. He waved in disgust.

“Dyson went over this, Gerry,” said Peter. “The bran flakes are fortified with every nutrient we need to thrive and survive.” Of all the men, only he appeared untouched by the work, hair combed, no dirt on his face, track jacket zipped to the neck. I wanted to thank him but couldn’t. I’d decided to have an adversarial relationship with the men, and although I appreciated Peter’s kindness—though a small, embarrassed part of me found his protectiveness endearing—I didn’t want to complicate the roles we played for each other.

Before I could give the men permission to eat they were already finished, bowls tipped to their mouths as they slurped chunky puddles of milk. They fled the barn without cleaning up. Peter remained at the table. He patiently lifted the spoon to his mouth. “Eat faster,” I told him.

He pointed to his full bowl. “Isn’t this our time to reflect?”

“Please get out,” I said.

“Happy to,” he said.

Alone, I let my resentments tangle and strengthen. I resented the men for ignoring me, for rushing through lunch, I resented Dyson for bringing me here, and, most of all, I resented Lucas Devry for igniting the fuse on my life. PIEs started in twenty minutes. But I didn’t want to lead the session. I had no plan and little headspace to sketch out a plan. Yet canceling would only embolden the men. I couldn’t surrender anything to them.

Dyson kept a box of golf pencils and a legal pad full of recipe notes in a kitchen drawer. I would make them write out their feelings, a simple, introductory task that should prevent them from speaking. I tore out twelve clean sheets of paper, then carried them and the pencils with me to the clearing. The men clustered around the sheds as if they were teenagers smoking. Two men stood on opposite sides of a plywood board tossing a hammer back and forth. Randy awarded points based on the difficulty of the catch. William Gremb—the Yoga Man—squatted and flattened his tongue against the shed’s door. He kept it pressed to the wood as he rose to a stand. Upright, he bowed with his hands in prayer.

After some coaxing, the men formed a circle on a patch of grass. The barn draped its shadow over us. I passed around supplies. “Power In Emotions sessions will parallel your physical and intellectual training, helping uncover unconscious emotional barriers. The body cannot improve without the growth of the heart and the mind.”

Gerry lifted his hand.

“Dyson is working on the evening lecture,” I told him. My eye started twitching.

“Why wasn’t Dyson at lunch?” someone asked without raising his hand.

“We’ve been over this.”

“I’m still hungry.”

“Dinner is five hours away.”

“What does Dyson think of these sessions?”

“We should begin,” I said.

“How long will this last?”

“We were in the middle of Hammers.”

“But Dyson will be here for dinner, right?”

I had no intention of hurting the men. But they had refused my civility. Kindness made them hostile. My passivity only fueled their aggression. “Does everyone have a pencil?” I asked. “Does everyone have a slip of paper?” I could’ve made them write. I could’ve told them to ask themselves why they felt compelled to challenge whatever I said. I tried to feel sympathy for them. These men are depressed, jobless, and broke, possibly suicidal, I thought. They deserve a supportive environment. Looking at them, I didn’t see twelve downtrodden men in need of my help but twelve tormentors trolling me. They were no different from the protestors outside my apartment. Before the men had arrived, during one of our walks in the woods, Dyson told me that all men were raised to believe that pain is necessary for growth. They recognize change only through pain, he said. It’s a pervasive problem for men. A problem, sure, but one we ought to have used to our advantage—we needed every advantage—not all the time, of course, but only during extreme circumstances, such as this one. I was angry at them. And I wanted to hurt them. I believed seeing them hurting might free me of my anger, as if justice were some kind of cosmic seesaw in which bringing them down might lift my spirits. This is not justice, however. This is revenge. And there is no end to revenge. That’s the point of it.

“First,” I said, “bunch up your paper and toss it over your shoulder.… I’ll wait.”

They did as I asked, perhaps thinking I would cancel the session.

“Now hold your pencil in your dominant hand… okay? Everyone ready? Peter, I see—okay good. Now—and this is very important—are you listening? Now: take that pencil and jam the point into your nondominant palm.”

The men didn’t move.

“Until it breaks,” I said. “Begin.”

Randy Dent raised his hand.

“Begin,” I said.

Randy said, “You want us to—”

“Begin.”

Randy lowered his hand. One man cautiously tapped the point into his palm. The Cheater Man slipped the pencil through fingers, faked a yelp. A twitch of a hurt crossed a third man’s face when the point hit skin.

Nothing they did satisfied me. They weren’t hurting themselves—they were faking it, trying to protect themselves. “I told you to jam the point until it breaks.”

Hughie, the Sports Man,