He started the news stream.
“Tonight,” said a wooden-looking anchor on the ten o’clock news, “we bring you an update to our ongoing coverage of The Atmospherians: Who are they? What do they want? Today, Channel Eight News intercepted a secret document composed by disgraced self-help guru and current cult leader Sasha Marcus—or Dyson, as she now calls herself. The document, which appears to be some kind of questionnaire, outlines Marcus’s recruiting practices and larger intentions, which include the castration of all unemployed males. Called The Atmosphere, Marcus’s cult is intent on the eradication of men from society. To expand on this developing story, we will hold a roundtable discussion on the threat of The Atmosphere to men across America. Please be warned: excerpts from Marcus’s document will be read on the air.”
I stared at Dyson, who was staring at the screen, his mouth pried open in dismay.
“Good job clearing my name,” I said.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he muttered, face still trained on the screen.
“Men are naturally vulnerable,” said a man on the screen. “Especially to the charms of womanly wiles. That’s not sexist. That’s just the truth.”
“Amen,” said another speaker.
“Mm-hmm,” grunted a third.
“Our oldest human stories warn us about women like Sasha,” said the first.
“She goes by Dyson now,” said the host.
“Why would you write that I’m castrating men?” I asked. I was less angry than confused. It did us no good to lie to such an extreme. “Is this the attention you wanted?”
“I didn’t even mention you,” he said. “I didn’t mention you once. The document made it abundantly clear that you had nothing to do with The Atmosphere.”
“So you’re cutting me out of the story?”
“I’m taking what’s rightfully mine,” he said. He covered his mouth and screamed into his hands for what felt like a full minute. He cautiously removed his hands. “This is a good thing,” he said pleasantly. He was trying to convince himself. “This is what I wanted.”
“It’s not what I wanted.”
“It didn’t work out perfectly. But now they’re talking about us again.”
“Men already deal with enough,” said one of the speakers. “Now they have to be on the lookout for a cult leader luring them into a castration camp? With all the things men have to put up with already? This is too much. This is going too far.”
“This is exactly what we needed,” said Dyson. He gritted his teeth—though he seemed to think he was smiling.
I look back at this moment—at his envy, repressed rage—as the seed of the recklessness that would undermine The Atmosphere. Dyson was incapable of controlling himself but trying nonetheless. I wish I would have recognized what was brewing inside him at the time, because I might have been able to deter his thinking, to show him the value in being forgotten.
what the men needed to know
Women can tell when you’re staring.
No one cares about your beer opinions.
Drink water.
Your father’s generation did not do it correctly.
Your father’s generation was not great.
Even more than war and muggers and illness and death, your father was scared of words. Simple little words, scared of speaking them, hearing them, writing them down on paper—and because of that you’re scared of words.
Your mother cheated on your father.
Your mother wasn’t a saint.
Your mother left you in the tub for too long, far too long.
That celebrity you met didn’t wish you two could hang out alone.
If there is a secret to grilling, you do not know it.
Over 98 percent of those arrested for forcible rape are men.
Men make up nearly 60 percent of those arrested for fraud.
Your new jokes are even less funny.
twenty-one
THE MEN LEANED deeply over their crossed arms, sighing and rapping their fingertips on the table in impatient rhythms. Their stomachs grumbled lionishly. They were, we feared, bored of the Family Dinners. Six weeks of feasting and Emptying Out had hardened their excitement into workmanlike tolerance. Few men seemed to have come any closer to reaching their completion point in the program, and I was losing hope in any of them ever moving on. They continued building the sheds—six were now finished—but their effort was beginning to slow. The mix of purging, low-calorie meals, and the exercise sessions had taken a toll on their bodies. Collectively, the men lost 198 pounds, an average of 16.5 pounds for every man. Their faces had begun to disintegrate into their skulls, their cheekbones prominent. Bags darkened their eyes. Their skin became flaked and waxy, due to—or maybe despite—all the time they spent in the sun. The exercises stressed their joints; bruises pooled at their ankles, elbows, and knees. Their bones made sounds like splintering wood when they sat down or stood, loud enough to disturb me, though they never registered the noises. Their uniforms fluttered in the wind as they worked. A handful of men lost a handful of teeth. Everyone lost at least one—including Dyson, who was purging most nights, loudly enough to shock me out of my melatonin sleep-stupors. I never went downstairs to stop him. Instead, I let my guilt fester and swell; I muffled my ears with a pillow.
Peter, however, appeared to benefit from the intensity of the workout regimen. Running shaved the baby fat from his face and revealed a stark, marble-hard jaw. In the afternoons, as the men built sheds, he tended to a small vegetable garden on the east side of the barn. The work of hoeing and troweling packed muscle
