Violence as the sole means of communication and bonding
Dyson nodded at me with knowing pride. I couldn’t help but nod back. I wanted to pat every man on the head, to express admiration, disbelief—condescension. Peter sat at the far end of the table. Blue frosting smudged his lips. He played the role of the birthday boy with equal parts cheer and embarrassment and self-absorption. The room seemed to levitate in collective joy. The men were softening—and I was softening, against my best intentions. For two months, I’d worked to prevent myself from seeing these men. I’d had no interest in sitting with their pain. After all, they showed no interest in sitting with mine. But weeks of seeing them weep and beg before Dyson had eroded the cement barrier I built up between us. Randy was not the only man who now seemed pitiable and explicable to me. They all were. And, for the first time since I’d arrived, the men seemed happy, and their happiness made me happy and happy for them, because they finally weren’t wrenching with pain or anger. They were the most human they’d been. Perhaps they had been this way the entire time, only I was just now beginning to see it. Instead of eleven men sitting before me, I saw the children they had been, the innocence at their cores, and I hated seeing this part of them, because if I could see it in them then I could have seen it in anyone, including in Blake, in Cassandra, in Lucas Devry. Seeing this side of the men was like wiping the steam off a fogged bathroom mirror. For a second, there would be perfect clarity, only for the steam to immediately return. I could have continued palming the steam away from the glass. I could have allowed myself this empathy, this softness, but it scared me. It is always easier—safer—to look away.
We walked across the parking lot still wearing our party hats, scrapes of frosting stuck under our fingernails, laughing at a joke that Gerry had cracked. Dyson, at the front of the group, held up his right arm when he saw the bus. The men clambered into one another. Three of the bus’s tires were slashed. Every window was shattered. Dicks of varying sizes were spray-painted across both sides.
“Hooligans,” said Lawrence Footbridge. “Rats with too much time on their dirty hands.”
“They can’t do this to us,” said Gerry.
I doubt the broken windows or tires or dicks upset Dyson. This was, after all, the kind of attention he’d been waiting for: any attention. What upset him, I suspect, was that over where the men had stenciled The Atmospherians someone had painted Fuck Sasha.
The bus was parked at the outer edge of the lot, dragged across a half-dozen spaces, with no cars anywhere near. Whoever did this had long ago driven away. Dyson stood quietly as the other men threatened and griped. His fists were clenched. He breathed shallowly, dramatically.
“It’s just a few tires,” I said to him. “We’ll drive back slowly.”
“This happens every time,” he muttered.
I knew immediately what he meant but asked him nonetheless.
“It happens every time,” he said again.
“Not in our house,” said Hughie. “This doesn’t happen in our house.”
“Shut up, Hughie!” I said. To Dyson: “Let’s just get out of here.”
“It happens every time,” he whispered. He had decided something, and nothing I said would change that. He stepped out farther in front of the men and gestured toward the bus. “It appears there has been a misunderstanding.”
“We understand perfectly what happened,” Randy said. “We’re under attack.”
“This is a test,” said Dyson. “A test of all the progress you men have made over the last two months. Yes, we have been attacked and ridiculed by cowards who won’t show their faces. That is clear. But our response should not be as cowardly and destructive as their actions were toward us. Remember: The sun doesn’t stop shining when the soil is bad. The sun shines no matter how unlikely something will grow.”
“Touchdown!”
“That’s why we will spend the rest of the afternoon recruiting outside the movie theater. Clearly, the people who caused this damage are hurting and ignorant. They don’t know how wrong they are about us. And the only way to prevent similar events from occurring in the future is to educate those who would seek to do us harm.”
I was just as confused as the men were. We had never discussed recruiting, had never come close to practicing. The men had no idea where to begin.
“It’s simple,” Dyson told them. “Walk up to a man who it appears might benefit from our operation and tell him this: ‘Hi, I’m… your name… and I’m a member of The Atmosphere, a transformative community for men founded and led by Dyson Layne. Dyson, a former actor and current visionary, has created a foolproof system for helping men achieve the lives they deserve.’ The rest is simple. Just tell them how I’ve helped you change your life. Any questions?”
Gerry raised his hand. “Should we mention Sasha?”
Dyson turned toward me, addressing everyone. “Should we mention you, Sasha?”
I flashed the most fuck off smile I could muster. “This is Dyson’s project,” I told the men. “He deserves all recognition.”
“There you have it,” said Dyson. “Let’s get working.” He clapped twice to send them on.
As I watched the men walk away, a heaviness spread through my stomach. I didn’t want to look. I didn’t want to participate, and I told Dyson as much.
“I didn’t expect you to,” he said.
“No one’s ready for this.”
“There’s only one way to be ready.”
“I would much rather have everyone think this was yours. Do you know how painful it is to step outside and see the same anger I had to face outside my apartment?”
“That’s why I’m trying to clear your name.”
“Do you know how painful it is when you ignore everything I’m telling you? It’s not my fault I’m here, getting credit. I don’t want it. I don’t want
