The Atmospherians Alex McElroy (i like reading .txt) 📖

green button-down and black dress pants. A frayed white tube sock hung over his belt. A rust-colored stain shaded its heel. “Randy Dent,” he said. “We had a chat on the phone.”

Blair extended his hand. “I’ve been waiting awhile.”

The water receptionist lifted Blair’s backpack. “Heavy,” he sighed.

“I can hold on to it,” Blair said.

“Sorry,” Randy said. “No backpacks inside. Or phones. You read the contract, right?”

The receptionist opened his palm to Blair. He passed over his phone.

“And your other pocket?” Randy asked.

“An inhaler.”

“You didn’t disclose any medical issues.”

“It’s minor,” Blair said. He eyed his backpack. “I should really change my shirt,” he said. “Is there a bathroom nearby?” Maybe he could slip on a microphone if left alone for a second.

“Change here,” Randy said. “We’re all men.”

The receptionist lifted the backpack for Blair to grab clothes. “We’re all men,” he said.

Blair sniffed under his arms. “It’s not that bad,” he said.

“There’s so little time as it is.” Randy wrapped his arm around Blair and pulled him close, in a brotherly way, and walked him into the department store.

All the men in the store had smooth, clean-shaven faces, shaggy hair past their ears. A man in blue sprayed cologne over his head. The scent irritated Blair’s nose. He kept bracing himself to bump into someone, but the men contorted their bodies and backed out of the way, pinning their arms to their chests to prevent any contact.

In the mall’s main promenade, the lighting changed to a fluorescent so white it turned Blair’s skin blue. He was surprised that they were on the second floor. All the stores had been remodeled. A sign above the nearest one read Registration.

Randy gripped Blair’s shoulder. “Used to be an engraving store. Precious Memories, where you carve your grandmother’s name on a plate. Sasha thought, What better place for registration? The stores have their own energies. Souls. The first few months, we housed registration in a former McDonald’s. Our psychiatrist met with clients in an old Bath and Body Works. But everything seemed… broken. The men were agitated. So Sasha—she’s truly incredible—suggested we match our aims with the previous stores. And I tell you, overnight,” he snapped, “everything changed.”

Blair nodded along. It was important to act impressed. It would prove he wasn’t a threat, that, someday, he might really believe this nonsense.

In one store, men in gray tracksuits spread out on a field tossing footballs to one another. “Champ’s Sports,” Randy said. “Now it’s the Fitness Field. Real grass, too.”

A man in a red T-shirt and shorts blew a whistle. The men in gray formed two lines and followed him on a jog through the promenade. Men in yellow replaced the Grays in the Fitness Field. They retrieved the discarded footballs and began playing catch.

“Aren’t you against traditional masculinity?” Blair hoped to trap him in a contradiction.

“Sports are fun. We’re not against fun. The problem’s when men get competitive. All the pressure and stress—self-hatred born out of unrealistic demands. Here, we only ask that men try their best, have some fun—whatever that means in the moment.” Inside, the men tossed the footballs off target. The balls blumped off their hands. They cheered despite their mistakes.

“What about running?” Blair asked. “For some men it might be dangerous.”

“I tell you, Blair, this place—I wouldn’t be breathing if it wasn’t for Sasha—”

“And Dyson.”

A mournful grimace flashed on Randy’s face. “I came here with a lot of anger—buckets and buckets of rage. Enough to gum up a canyon. If you asked me six years ago if I’d ever feel this good, I would’ve bit off your hand. But you know what happened? I said yes after a life saying no. You run a bit, throw a football, seems dumb when you say it out loud, but you just need to do it. Embrace it, Blair. You’ll be amazed what you’re capable of.”

Randy walked so close to Blair that the backs of their hands repeatedly grazed. His deep, meaty breath clouded their conversation. Blair couldn’t say anything about the suffocating proximity without arousing suspicion. But he asked if he could use the first restroom they passed. In a stall, he huddled over his thighs and scribbled into his notebook.

• Film soundtrack through the speakers—unclear?

• Signs on ceiling point in direction of Freedom, Self-Actualization, Intentions

• Men wearing blue spritzing cologne

• Directory map replaced with scrolling list of men’s names ranked beside percentages

• TMA? RAX? WAR?

Randy knocked on the door. “It’s been a while,” he said. “Everything working?”

“Coming right out.”

Throughout the tour, Randy held a demented fascination with the history of the stores: the Meditation Studio was a Yankee Candle, Primary Care was a Foot Locker, the Call Center was a Verizon, the Art Studio was an Art World, the Tailor was Build-A-Bear Workshop, Security had been a Justice, Compliment Speed-Dating was the McDonald’s where registration had once been, Radiology was The Sharper Image, and the Coding Lab was the Apple Store. The entire third floor was devoted to designing and building sheds. Randy found their transformations ironic and fitting, both too perfect and unbelievable. He praised the work they did teaching men to embrace life in the mall—a historically feminine site that men had been socialized to avoid. His excitement left Blair no room to talk about Dyson. He still hadn’t seen any photos of Dyson. The letter had advised him to look for such photos: their absence would prove that The Atmosphere was hiding something.

Blair paused at an unmarked store. Its windows were painted black.

“Victoria’s Secret,” said Randy. “We call it The Crucible now. It’s a place for men to test how far they’ve come. To really repress their most flagrant desires.”

Blair imagined sticky seats, peep shows playing for quarters.

“Available only to Elite Atmospherians. A lot of hard work goes into getting there.”

“What type of work?”

“Dangerous work,” Randy said. After a long silence, he laughed. “Don’t look so scared all the time. I bet you think we’re a cult. Everyone thinks we’re a cult. I’d think it, too, if