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

on his shoulders and arms. His softness continued to appeal to me, especially compared to the other men’s brutish simplicity. I took to bothering him as he weeded and watered. “What’s that?” I would ask while strolling past, pointing at zucchini or carrots.

Peter always answered me kindly, even though I asked the same questions every day. “Zucchini,” he would answer, or, “Carrots,” and never make me feel foolish for asking—a habit of Blake’s. I couldn’t ask Blake anything without upsetting him. Peter’s acquiescence was not sexy in its own right, though I found it an attractive corrective to Blake’s selfish exasperation. I felt validated when I spoke to Peter. He listened to me; he answered me. Perhaps what I felt around him was powerful. Important. The same way I once did to my subscribers.

Dyson placed a roasted ham in the center of the picnic table. The men applauded, as was their custom, but it was feeble applause, the way someone might clap when an enemy wins an award. Despite their lack of enthusiasm, Dyson refused to cut Family Dinners from The Atmosphere. The questionnaire fiasco deepened his commitment to his vision. He needed to ensure his ideas continued to shape the culture. Outside The Atmosphere, word of “Sasha’s Castration Cult” spread across newspapers and podcasts. Online petitions encouraged shutting us down; however, no one ever acted on the demands the petitions made. It was as if our detractors liked protesting us more than they liked putting an end to us.

Dyson wanted to protect every aspect of Family Dinners, in particular Emptying Out. These meals were the reward for the work the men put in through the week. Emptying Out might not have seemed like a reward, he assured them, but it taught them the fragile nature of progress and to never take their gains for granted, because at any moment what they considered they believed they deserved might be taken away from them. He feared the men might treat Family Dinners like regular meals—the canned veggies and rice they received Sunday through Friday—dismissing the planning (and emotional baggage) undergirding those dinners. Over the past weeks, he introduced new initiatives aimed at pleasing the men. Junk food was added to the menu—chips and cheese crackers and tiny bagel pizzas and sandwich cookies and salted peanuts—so the Family Dinners came to resemble the binges we once shared at my house. The men slobbered down the junk even as their commitment to Emptying Out continued to wane, even with the aid of ipecac wine. Last week, Dyson had knelt with them at the trough, against my wishes, to inspire them through solidarity. Instead, his participation disturbed them. He was supposed to be above them, not of them, and all week they treated him with tepid civility verging on indifference.

So I proposed we try something different.

As Dyson sliced cuts of ham off the bone, I hammered a sheet of construction paper to the door. On it were this week’s rankings.

“The last six weeks,” Dyson said, “Sasha and I have ranked you based on undisclosed criteria. Now that the sample is large enough, we will share our findings.”

I took a spot beside Dyson. “G.E.M.,” I said, “or the Gustatory Enthusiasm Marker, measures your commitment to Family Dinners and Emptying Out. The interest you show in both activities is recorded, multiplied, and averaged to decide each Atmospherian’s G.E.M. score. Over the past five weeks, only one of you consistently earned a perfect score.” I paused.

Each man leaned back on the bench, prematurely proud of himself.

“The only perfect score,” Dyson said, “belongs to Peter Minston.”

Dyson and I were the only ones clapping now.

Peter raised his arm, bashfully accepting the praise.

“Peter, as a reward for your efforts, you are exempt from tonight’s Family Dinner.”

The news cratered the men.

“I can’t possibly accept that,” said Peter.

“You’re not accepting anything, Peter,” I said. “The honor is being bestowed upon you.”

“This is a kick in the dick to the rest of us,” Randy said.

“You all had every chance to improve your rankings,” said Dyson.

“I’m not sure this is fair,” Peter said.

“My G.E.M. was really that low?” asked Gerry.

“This type of rigged bullshit would never fly in the corps,” said Leon. “Hoo-rah.”

“Peter: Sasha will accompany you on a walk as the others partake in tonight’s activities.”

“But what will I eat?” he asked.

“You’ll eat with Sasha and I later tonight,” said Dyson. “You earned it, champ.”

The others stared hotly at Peter and me.

Outside, he asked me if the others would be mad at him.

“They probably already are,” I said.

The grisly sound of the binge bled through the barn. Hearing them eat sickened me. Peter felt the same way I did, or he said he did because he wanted to be alone with me—more alone than he already was—and we agreed to hike through the forest.

Past the bony frame of the sixth shed was the newest addition to camp: The Crucible. It was the latest addition to Dyson’s ongoing attempt to transform The Atmosphere into a funhouse replica of his childhood. He had collapsed his basement into the size of an outhouse. Mirrors covered the interior walls, including the ceiling. Every day, before dinner, each man spent ten minutes alone in The Crucible, naked, reflecting on what had led him here.

The men assured Dyson they had never known themselves so intimately.

Peter, however, found his daily ten minutes excruciating. “It makes me paranoid,” he said. “I don’t reflect on anything, and I leave feeling worse about myself and my body and with no desire to eat. Is that the point of it? To make us hate ourselves? To make us eat less?”

It wasn’t not the point. “Is that what you think the point is?”

“I shouldn’t complain,” he said. “I’m lucky I’m here. I’m a new person thanks to you.” Peter was precise with his words. By you he meant me, only me, and his confessed preference pleased and surprised me.

“You mean thanks to Dyson and me,” I said, toying with him.

“You’ve done way more than he