Photo by John Fowler

Rainbow Fragments and the Lies We Tell

by Jack Cooper

It was lonely on that road at night. I’d walk along the shoulder; there were no lights of any kind. Passing cars with their headlights—I hoped they could see me in the dark. I would have liked one to stop, size me up, and maybe spend time with me in ways I had recently begun to cultivate. I had the cocky sense of indestructibility that all teenagers have. But the pickings around here were slim to none for guys of the kind that would appeal to me.

Along this road were a general store with a gas pump, a small white church with an unlit steeple, and cabins tucked off the road here and there. There was also a one-room tavern, run down but always open, which became my refuge.

With its dated Adirondack décor, pool table, and juke box, the tavern was my go-to place when I was in the North Country and had little to do. Weekday evenings were usually scarce of patrons, allowing me to enjoy solitude.

Upon entering through the screen door, the smell of stale cigarettes and spilled beer hit me hard, a familiar heaviness settling in my chest. If the owner opened the windows from time to time, the place wouldn’t smell so bad. Sheer stubbornness kept the stale air lingering, mirroring the stagnant mood that clung to me. The screen door wasn't letting in enough Adirondack mountain air. The refreshing mountain air could be cleansing, but it was not to be. It was always the same, year after year, night after night – a heavy, stagnant, unventilated haze that seemed to seep into my bones, amplifying my sense of confinement and longing for something more.

White-tail deer heads adorned the walls of knotty pine, and vintage beer cans and bottles cluttered the shelves. Beaver, raccoon, and other animal pelts hung from real antler ceiling lights, most of the incandescent bulbs unlit. I didn’t mind the gloom that enveloped the single large room, which featured a full-length bar on one wall. Above the pool table hung a vintage Pabst Blue Ribbon pub light in cobalt blue.

I’ve been coming here for two years, drinking underage without any issues. I’m sure the bartender, who was also the owner, knew I was likely not legal. She was a large, elderly woman who rarely spoke and seemed uninterested in her few patrons. She was always there, growing older by the day—her hair sparser than the previous year, age spots more pronounced on the glassy tissue of her cheeks and hands, and she moved more slowly as the night progressed. Her voice boomed with firm authority whenever she had a reason to speak. She never revealed her feelings on any particular subject; her patrons would never be privy to them.

There he was, sitting at the bar. I've seen him here several times, nursing a beer. I don’t recall him ever interacting with anyone. Always quietly sitting alone. He was certainly something to look at, and I found it hard not to stare – which I think he found amusing. Sometimes, he would walk over to the pool table and watch me knock billiard balls into pockets while I sipped on Matt’s Premium lager at thirty-five cents a glass. As a young teenager, that price was well within my budget; my taste in beer had yet to evolve. He didn’t appear to be much older than I was – late teens, maybe early twenties. He wore tight-fitting, worn-out jeans and an open red flannel shirt. He was undeniably good-looking, tall, with thickly lashed brown eyes and wavy, straw-colored hair that fell to his ears. Lean, muscular, and tanned from the early-summer sun, he embodied a true North Country persona. A woodsman wannabe, maybe. Yet something urged me to look more closely, observe the subtleties. He was too refined in his demeanor for a born-and-raised country kid—styled hair, clean-shaven, puka shell necklace. These details suggested something else.

This was the second summer I’d see him at the tavern, usually on weekday evenings, just like me. He either lived nearby or spent summers here, as many of us did. It was apparent that his evenings resembled mine—spent mostly alone, getting cheap-beer drunk, hoping to get picked up, and not much else—yet I sensed a deeper yearning beneath his composed exterior.

As I observed him, perhaps not so subtly, I noticed that he was discreetly watching me as well. I was flattered and excited, yet cautious. But I waited for him to speak, as he was too stunning for me to approach first without him suggesting he would be interested. He never spoke until this one evening, when he broke the silence. He was soft-spoken, barely above a whisper, as he began by asking questions: Where was I from? What brings me here? What do I do? The last question was an easy one for me to answer. At fifteen, my response was simple: Not very much. Maybe wishful thinking on my part, but it seemed to me that we shared an essential common feature. Rainbow fragments. He was probably unaware of, or uncomfortable with, his true self, but I hoped he might become curious and ready to explore it. He likely struggled with the path expected of guys like him and me, making life dreary and heavy. Perhaps the lack of opportunity led him down the straight, predictable path. After all, we were in the middle of the Adirondacks. He would be thunderstruck if he discovered the tastes he may never have taken the chance to cultivate, as I had begun to do. The more time I spent watching, the more I learned that his quiet words, gestures, and the details of his person revealed that we were alike—rainbow fragments masquerading as straight guys. To me, he seemed like a guy who wanted to be ignorant of himself and remain burdened by the expectations of a straight identity. But then, on this one evening, everything changed.

“Would you like to get out of here?” he whispered. “I can get us high if you’re into that.”

With you? I’d go anywhere! I was thinking, but not daring to say.

“Sure,” I responded, slowly laying the pool cue down on the table’s felt lining, not wanting to appear eager. “Where did you have in mind?” I was feeling opportunity right down to my groin.

“I have a small place across the highway, just up the road. Not far from here. Easy walk,” he continued whispering, as if someone who cared would be listening.

Apart from the bartender, the tavern's only other occupant was an older man hunched over on a stool at the far end of the bar. I had noticed him when he first came in, as he had passed close to the pool table to reach the bar. He was emaciated and filthy, with a long beard and scraggly hair. His face was creased with wrinkles, but his eyes were warm and kind despite his weariness. He gave me a simple nod and a slight smile as he passed by. The bartender placed a drink on the bar for him without him even having to ask. Clearly a local regular. Then she turned away, back to the black-and-white television behind the bar, engrossed in a game show of some sort. She paid him no attention whatsoever.

Of course, I was interested in getting high. It would make the walk back to my summer home far more interesting. For whatever reason, I had been looking forward to the thrill of getting stoned without the means to do so until his offer. I was already somewhat inebriated, and my desire for a state of impairment would lower my inhibitions and compromise my judgment. This would make it much easier for me to embrace who I truly was when the opportunity arose, which didn’t happen often. I thought to myself, this may be one of those rare occasions, hopeful as I was.

“Yeah, I’m up for it,” I responded. “Lead the way.”

We slipped off into the night, quickly swallowed by the darkness; the screen door to the tavern slamming closed behind us. In the distance, a dog howled—an ominous sign. We walked north along the highway, flanked by towering pines that reached toward the dark sky. It was so much colder than the night before; thunderstorms had swept through earlier in the day, dissipating the thick air that could choke you.

As we walked along, I turned to look back at the tavern. An incandescent bulb hung unprotected by the screen door. It acted as a chaotic beacon, creating a violent, buzzing, and thick swarming of bugs against the darkness. The warm, yellow light illuminated a dense, dancing haze of nocturnal insects, which stood out sharply against the tavern's dark backdrop.

The moon was hidden behind a cloud. Only a single car had passed us by since we had left the tavern. The headlights allowed me to watch him from behind as he moved along. His shoulders were pulled back, and his stride was purposeful, suggesting he knew his way in the pitch-blackness, moving in a deliberate yet unhurried pace. His hands were in his pockets, and he projected a confident, self-assured, in-control demeanor. Maybe I initially read him all wrong. Maybe this wasn’t his first rodeo if what I was hoping for would, in fact, happen.

We crossed the dark highway, where a narrow, open path led into the forest. It was not quite wide enough for a vehicle to pass through without scraping the pine branches on either side. Yet, there were tire ruts along the path, overgrown with ankle-high vegetation. It was eerie without the moonlight. But the moon came out from behind a cloud and helped a bit by lighting the way. There was a faint whiff of smoke from a bonfire, that unique scent of pine burning.

As we walked, the fat pine branches, still heavy from the earlier rain, showered me when I brushed against them. It occurred to me that he had said nothing since we left the tavern, simply leading the way, so I felt there was no reason for me to speak either. But I was looking forward to learning about him, hoping that I wouldn’t be disappointed.

The night was cold and clear; the stars brilliant. I looked up when the trees allowed it and spotted Orion overhead. A wave of dizziness hit me. My head spun as the air felt charged with an unsettling energy. The crunch of the pine-needled forest floor echoed underfoot as we trudged along. Something moved from the shadows – perhaps a spooked deer – but he showed no sign of having seen or heard it. My eyes became fixed on the woods lining the path, scanning for movement in the dark.

The sounds of the night surrounded us, and I listened closely as he remained silent on our way to his place. The katydids provided a rhythmic buzz, and the crickets filled the air with their chirps. Tree frogs and deep-voiced bullfrogs created a constant, loud chorus, indicating that water was not far off. A sudden and horrific screech from a barn owl sent shivers down my spine. I wanted the safety of his cabin and, hopefully, the security of his strong arms.

We soon came upon a small, treeless patch just past the edge of the woods. The clearing offered a stunning view of the star-filled sky. It was August of 1974, and the Perseid meteor shower was upon us in the Adirondacks. The shower radiated from the northeastern sky, optimal viewing at this late hour. I wanted to mention this to my new companion but hesitated, not wanting to seem nerdy, especially since I didn’t even know his name yet.

Suddenly, a storm cloud appeared out of nowhere, blackening the sky yet again, blocking my view of the celestial event. I could faintly see his form ahead, yet I could hear the scuffling of his feet as we continued forward.

Then he spoke. “My cabin is just ahead.” As he said this, the howls and barks of coyotes filled the night air. The wind rustled through the pine trees, and the cracking and snapping of branches echoed through the woods. I was eager to be inside.

A window came into view, with dim light glowing from within. We were only a few yards away from a cabin that had a front stoop and two steps leading to a heavy wooden door. Again, I felt the air thick with an unsettling intensity, and thought perhaps the several beers I had earlier were starting to affect me.

He looked at me and commented, “You’re quiet. Are you okay? We’re here.”

“Yeah,” I replied. “I’m good.” In truth, I wasn’t good; my anxiety was surging. But I knew how to lie when it was needed, and in my world, it was often needed.

I followed him inside, noticing when I entered that the air was stale, as if the place had been closed up for some time. That wasn’t unusual for places up around here, but this was midsummer and should have had the scent of the pine forest permeating throughout.

He reached for a light switch, and the entryway brightened, revealing a hallway. As my eyes adjusted to the sudden light, I noticed the white walls and a terra-cotta tiled floor—odd for an Adirondack cabin. A neat row of metal coat hooks lined the left side, with a bench beneath them. I followed him as we passed a dark living room with a daybed, a sofa, and not much else. We made our way down the hallway toward what turned out to be the kitchen. All along the hallway walls were picture frames hanging on hooks, but they were empty—no pictures at all in any of them—another strange observation on my part.

Entering the kitchen, I saw slate countertops and polished dark wood cabinets. But something was off. There was nothing on the counters, and the cabinet doors were open, revealing empty shelves. It was as if no one actually used this place, in either summer or winter.

From his pocket, he pulled out a pipe and a lighter. As he lit the pipe and inhaled the sweet-smelling smoke, he gestured for me to take a seat at a large wooden table. He offered the pipe as I sat.

I took the pipe and inhaled deeply. My lungs filled with the warmth of what the pipe had to offer. The table was covered with a film of dust, and the air felt thin and strange.

“Do you even live here?” I asked.

“The truth is, I like the sparse look. Kinda feels like a clean slate, ya know. No clutter to deal with.”

A clean slate from what? I wondered. It sounded strange, but I didn’t ask the question. The whole situation felt bizarre. A voice in the back of my mind hissed out a warning: Leave this place. Run. Whatever it was I had smoked was having an immediate effect. The room seemed to shrink and darken. The calm and relaxation I expected were nowhere to be found.

As he approached me, I handed back his pipe. He relit it and took a few hits before laying it on the table in front of me. Then he removed his shirt, revealing a stunning, smooth body of lean muscles. His suntan was noticeable down to his waistband. I sure felt desire, a heightened sensory experience that was almost immediate. But my ability to remain clear-headed was slipping away as my heart rate quickened and my sense of time distorted. My motor skills felt impaired, yet I was already on my feet and on him, devouring his smooth, warm flesh. The last thing I remember was us taking off our clothes.

Some time later, I found myself naked on a daybed, trying to piece together my surroundings and what I had experienced. I couldn’t remember where I was or how much time had passed. The light in the room was dim, possibly from moonlight filtering through a window, as there were no lamps in sight. My clothes lay in a jumble on the floor. Anxiety washed over me, and I felt a mini panic attack building. Paranoia set in as I scanned the room. Despite the darkness, I could see that he was also lying naked on a sofa across the room. The space was sparsely furnished and shrouded in shadows. No lights were on at all, yet it wasn’t entirely dark either. My desire for him was rising once again, but so were my feelings of paranoia and anxiety. It was time for me to leave and find my way back to the highway, but damn, he looked so desirable lying there, exposed and vulnerable.

I could still feel the effects of whatever I had consumed earlier. I suspected it wasn't just simple pot; perhaps it was mixed with hash. My experience with hash had always been limited and regrettable. My mouth and throat were dry, and my coordination was off as I tried to get dressed. I must have enjoyed myself with him; at least, I hoped so, but the details were a blur.

Across the room, I noticed him moving, trying to get up too. Despite the shadows, he appeared beautiful, especially in his nakedness. I had to force myself not to go to him, even though it would have been easy for me to do so. I was still trying to comprehend what had transpired and how long I had been out. A wave of dizziness and vertigo washed over me, and I forced myself to pull it together. A faint, musty smell lingered in the air, as if the room—or perhaps the entire cabin—had been without fresh air for some time, and I desperately needed fresh air.

“I’ve got to go,” I whispered, as I attempted to get dressed.

“Wait, don’t go yet,” he said.

“I have to. Maybe another time.”

Now mostly dressed and stepping away on shaky legs, I found myself back in the hallway filled with its empty picture frames and coat hooks. I stepped through the huge wooden door I had entered. He followed, wearing only his underwear. On the front stoop of the cabin, we both stood as I looked down on the long, dark path that led to the highway and my walk home.

“It’s not what you think,” he said, as if trying to explain something.

I was confused. I wasn’t thinking about anything, especially in my current state of impairment. He may have felt the need to explain something to me, but my focus was on getting my bearings, so I didn’t encourage him to continue.

The fresh pine air helped clear the fog from my mind as I inhaled deeply. It was challenging to walk away from him, but I didn’t know what time it was and how difficult it would be to get back home in my current state.

I stumbled down the two irregular stone steps leading to the ground and would have fallen if he hadn’t reached out to grab me, saving me from an embarrassing fall. As he held me in his strong arms against a solid, smooth chest, I inhaled his scent, thinking how much I would enjoy being with him while fully conscious. Warmth radiated from his tanned, bare flesh, despite the cold. Maybe I’ll have the opportunity again soon. I still couldn’t remember anything beyond taking a hit from the pipe and him removing his shirt; most everything else was a blur.

As he held me, the strong scent of pine, musk, and lingering intimacy gave me second thoughts about leaving. But I needed to get it together, find out the time, and my exact whereabouts so that I could safely make it home. My struggle to be who I truly was had been causing me trouble lately—trouble I couldn’t explain to anyone, and lying when necessary.

I waited for him to release me, but he just held me tight. His nose was buried into the top of my head, as he was taller than I. So, I wrapped myself around him, enjoying the moment while I waited for him to release me, and hoped that he would not. Into the top of my head, he whispered, “Thank you.”

“Sure,” I mumbled into the side of his neck where my face was buried. I felt him rising down below, and I was responding accordingly, but no, it was time for me to leave.

When he finally let me go, wishing he hadn’t, I turned away and began my walk down the path that led us there. I was still uncertain about so much that evening, including how to find my way back to the highway. Moonlight illuminated the way, and I hoped he would walk me back to the road, even in just his underwear. I would have waited for him to get dressed if he had offered. In my condition, the thought of going it alone was unnerving.

I turned back one last time to glance at the cabin. I saw the young Adonis sitting quietly on the stone steps in his underwear. Glowing under the moonlight, he watched me, and I sensed sadness in his eyes, a realization that we would likely never see each other again.

For years, I pondered why I had never encountered this young North Country Adonis again. Perhaps it explains the emptiness of the cabin—this being his last time in the area for the season or forever. Knowing this, he might have felt that putting himself out there with me was a safe gamble, an opportunity that, regardless of how it turned out, meant he wouldn’t have to confront either me or the experience again. His courage to do so may have stemmed from the knowledge that he would soon be leaving the area. He could retreat into his North Country identity, feeling safe and secure, never having to face his internal struggles or the reasons that brought us together on that one strange evening.

It was the seventies—no social media. With the rainbow fragments inside of us, there was one thing that we excelled at: lying when it was necessary, and it was often necessary. In fact, the one we lie to the most is ourselves.

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