BARB'S PARIS HOLIDAY (illustrations by thehangingtree)
Chapter 1
It was a crisp November morning out on the TreeHouse deck. Always the early riser, Tree was already there and wreathed in cigarette smoke by the time I stumbled out of bed, wrapped myself in a robe, found my way to the deck and took a seat.
“Want some breakfast?” he drawled, pushing a half empty bottle of Seagram's and a dirty glass across the table in my direction.
“Ummm ... no thanks ... not hungry,” I replied as my stomach rebelled and I made a face.
“You look a bit bummed out, Barb. Rough night?”
“I really don’t remember any of it, Tree.”
“That’s ok, neither do I. In fact I almost never do.”
“Yeah, I imagine that's the way it usually is with you. But I’ve been thinking, Tree. I feel like I am in a rut and that I could really use a change ... take some time off and do something pleasurable.”
“What, you’re not getting enough action here at the Treehouse? What do you call last night?”
“No, no ... not sex! ... and I thought you said you didn’t remember last night! I mean I need a holiday ... to go somewhere interesting ... someplace different ... find some solitude ... just me alone ... you know what I mean ... like a road trip to some place pleasant!”
“The Ozarks are nice this time of year ... still some fall colors out there even though it’s November,” he suggested as he lit a another cigarette.
I consulted my iPhone, googling Ozarks. “Ummm, yeah. Not all that far from here. I could take I-44, and then I-49 into NW Arkansas and then ...”
“Get off in Fort Smith, and take 22 east to Paris” ... he interjected from behind a fresh blue-tinged haze of smoke. “Not the one in France ...the seat of Logan County. That’s near Mt. Magazine, the tallest peak between the Appalachians and the Rocky Mountains. And there’s even an abbey there.”
“Sounds charming. You wouldn’t mind if I borrowed the Mustang?”
“Well ..... I uh .... I mean ...”
“Oh Thanks. You’re a dear,” I cooed, allowing the front of my bathrobe to fall open and slip from my shoulders ... just to seal the deal.
“Don’t mention it, Barb,” he mumbled, focusing his bloodshot eyes on me for the first time since I had joined him on the deck.
“ ... oh, look ... I just found a place to stay in Paris on my phone. Looks like one of those upscale B-and-B’s ... that are all the rage these days, you know ... lots of plush red velvet stuff judging from the pics. 'Shady Rest’, it’s called. And I can book it right on my phone ... there! See? Done!”
“Did you bother to read the fine print? That’s in NW Arkansas, you know.”
“Nah ... I’m sure it’s fine. Great! So excited! I’m going to go get a shower now so I can get an early start!”
“Need help?”
*********************
By 10 am I was seated behind the wheel of Tree’s vintage baby-blue Mustang and on my way. My IPhone told me that it was a six and a half hour drive from St. Louis to Paris, Arkansas, but I figured if I floored it and stopped at a McDs for a quick lunch I’d make it well before sundown.
Five hours later I was in Fort Smith and turning onto Arkansas 22, which would take me the rest of the way into Paris. The road wound about and the Ozark scenery was fabulous. My excitement grew with each passing mile. I imagined a great dinner and a comfy Victorian four poster bed waiting for me at the 'Shady Rest'. Before I knew it I was nearly there.
But, unfortunately, as I rolled into town, I failed to notice a cop sitting on his motorcycle ... most likely because he was hiding behind a billboard. Less than a minute after I passed him by, he was right behind me with his lights flashing.
"Oh Shit," I said to myself as I pulled over. Apprehensively, I watched him in the rear view mirror as he removed his helmet and dismounted his bike. He was coming forward with a swagger that boded no good! I thought maybe the best plan might be to play lost and ask directions. Hopefully I could charm my way out of this.
As he rapped on the window, I adjusted the short little skirt I was wearing to show a little more thigh and undid a couple buttons on my shirt, thinking such things might help. Then I lowered the window and flashed him my best 'come-on' smile.
“Drivers license and vehicle registration,” he barked, ignoring my friendly opening question about the location of the Interstate and holding out his hand.
As I fumbled in my bag for my license, I noticed the name tag on his shirt, which read. ‘Hiram Tree’.
“Oh, you’re a Tree!” I exclaimed, flashing him what I hoped was another winning smile. “I’ll bet you know my good friend back in St. Louis ...
“Most everyone around these parts is a Tree, ma’am. Been that way for generations,” he replied stiffly, eyes glued to my amply displayed cleavage. “Now that DL, if you please.”
I handed it over, leaning forward enough to give him a better view.
“Hmmmm ... Barbara A. Moore ... Minnesota license ... ain’t that one of those whacko socialist blue states?”
“Well .....”
“Never mind, vehicle registration please.”
“One sec. it’s probably in the glove compartment,” I said as I leaned over the passenger seat in a way that caused my skirt to slide clear up to the top of my thighs. “Yes, here it is, Hiram.”
I watched him as he squinted at Tree’s vehicle registration and insurance documents. He had one of those meaty good ole boy faces, and arms like sausages.
“Tell me, Hiram. For what reason did you pull me over?” I purred. “Surely nothing serious, right?”
“You were speeding, Ms. Moore ... 45 mph in a 25 zone.”
“Oh, that’s a mistake, Hiram ... the speed limit sign back there says 40.”
“Yep, but that sign over yonder says 25.”
“But THAT sign is hidden behind a bush!” I exclaimed, the tone of my voice shrill.
“You’re plates are expired too,” he added.
“But they’re not my plates! This car belongs to my friend, Hanging Tree ... one of your distant relatives, remember?”
“No matter. And exactly where were you headed, Ms. Moore?”
“Ahhh, that’s the thing Hiram. I’m a tourist, with reservations to stay right here in Paris ... contributing to the local economy you might say. That should count for something I should think. I’m booked at the Shady Rest. Nice place. You can check with them. They're expecting me.”
“Really? Well, Ms. Moore, I hate to break this to you, but the Shady Rest is the town brothel. So you were headed here to work for Madame Helen Tree, were you? Tsk tsk. What a shame! Now I’m going to have to add attempted prostitution across state lines to the charges against you. And I wouldn’t be surprised if this car is stolen too. Why would someone with a name like Hanging Tree loan his car to the likes of you?"
"But ... but ..."
"You’re under arrest. I need to read you your rights, frisk and cuff you. Kindly get out of your vehicle, Ms Moore, turn and face it with open hands on the top of the door frame ... oh, and spread your legs!”
Chapter 1
It was a crisp November morning out on the TreeHouse deck. Always the early riser, Tree was already there and wreathed in cigarette smoke by the time I stumbled out of bed, wrapped myself in a robe, found my way to the deck and took a seat.
“Want some breakfast?” he drawled, pushing a half empty bottle of Seagram's and a dirty glass across the table in my direction.
“Ummm ... no thanks ... not hungry,” I replied as my stomach rebelled and I made a face.
“You look a bit bummed out, Barb. Rough night?”
“I really don’t remember any of it, Tree.”
“That’s ok, neither do I. In fact I almost never do.”
“Yeah, I imagine that's the way it usually is with you. But I’ve been thinking, Tree. I feel like I am in a rut and that I could really use a change ... take some time off and do something pleasurable.”
“What, you’re not getting enough action here at the Treehouse? What do you call last night?”
“No, no ... not sex! ... and I thought you said you didn’t remember last night! I mean I need a holiday ... to go somewhere interesting ... someplace different ... find some solitude ... just me alone ... you know what I mean ... like a road trip to some place pleasant!”
“The Ozarks are nice this time of year ... still some fall colors out there even though it’s November,” he suggested as he lit a another cigarette.
I consulted my iPhone, googling Ozarks. “Ummm, yeah. Not all that far from here. I could take I-44, and then I-49 into NW Arkansas and then ...”
“Get off in Fort Smith, and take 22 east to Paris” ... he interjected from behind a fresh blue-tinged haze of smoke. “Not the one in France ...the seat of Logan County. That’s near Mt. Magazine, the tallest peak between the Appalachians and the Rocky Mountains. And there’s even an abbey there.”
“Sounds charming. You wouldn’t mind if I borrowed the Mustang?”
“Well ..... I uh .... I mean ...”
“Oh Thanks. You’re a dear,” I cooed, allowing the front of my bathrobe to fall open and slip from my shoulders ... just to seal the deal.
“Don’t mention it, Barb,” he mumbled, focusing his bloodshot eyes on me for the first time since I had joined him on the deck.
“ ... oh, look ... I just found a place to stay in Paris on my phone. Looks like one of those upscale B-and-B’s ... that are all the rage these days, you know ... lots of plush red velvet stuff judging from the pics. 'Shady Rest’, it’s called. And I can book it right on my phone ... there! See? Done!”
“Did you bother to read the fine print? That’s in NW Arkansas, you know.”
“Nah ... I’m sure it’s fine. Great! So excited! I’m going to go get a shower now so I can get an early start!”
“Need help?”
*********************
By 10 am I was seated behind the wheel of Tree’s vintage baby-blue Mustang and on my way. My IPhone told me that it was a six and a half hour drive from St. Louis to Paris, Arkansas, but I figured if I floored it and stopped at a McDs for a quick lunch I’d make it well before sundown.
Five hours later I was in Fort Smith and turning onto Arkansas 22, which would take me the rest of the way into Paris. The road wound about and the Ozark scenery was fabulous. My excitement grew with each passing mile. I imagined a great dinner and a comfy Victorian four poster bed waiting for me at the 'Shady Rest'. Before I knew it I was nearly there.
But, unfortunately, as I rolled into town, I failed to notice a cop sitting on his motorcycle ... most likely because he was hiding behind a billboard. Less than a minute after I passed him by, he was right behind me with his lights flashing.
"Oh Shit," I said to myself as I pulled over. Apprehensively, I watched him in the rear view mirror as he removed his helmet and dismounted his bike. He was coming forward with a swagger that boded no good! I thought maybe the best plan might be to play lost and ask directions. Hopefully I could charm my way out of this.
As he rapped on the window, I adjusted the short little skirt I was wearing to show a little more thigh and undid a couple buttons on my shirt, thinking such things might help. Then I lowered the window and flashed him my best 'come-on' smile.
“Drivers license and vehicle registration,” he barked, ignoring my friendly opening question about the location of the Interstate and holding out his hand.
As I fumbled in my bag for my license, I noticed the name tag on his shirt, which read. ‘Hiram Tree’.
“Oh, you’re a Tree!” I exclaimed, flashing him what I hoped was another winning smile. “I’ll bet you know my good friend back in St. Louis ...
“Most everyone around these parts is a Tree, ma’am. Been that way for generations,” he replied stiffly, eyes glued to my amply displayed cleavage. “Now that DL, if you please.”
I handed it over, leaning forward enough to give him a better view.
“Hmmmm ... Barbara A. Moore ... Minnesota license ... ain’t that one of those whacko socialist blue states?”
“Well .....”
“Never mind, vehicle registration please.”
“One sec. it’s probably in the glove compartment,” I said as I leaned over the passenger seat in a way that caused my skirt to slide clear up to the top of my thighs. “Yes, here it is, Hiram.”
I watched him as he squinted at Tree’s vehicle registration and insurance documents. He had one of those meaty good ole boy faces, and arms like sausages.
“Tell me, Hiram. For what reason did you pull me over?” I purred. “Surely nothing serious, right?”
“You were speeding, Ms. Moore ... 45 mph in a 25 zone.”
“Oh, that’s a mistake, Hiram ... the speed limit sign back there says 40.”
“Yep, but that sign over yonder says 25.”
“But THAT sign is hidden behind a bush!” I exclaimed, the tone of my voice shrill.
“You’re plates are expired too,” he added.
“But they’re not my plates! This car belongs to my friend, Hanging Tree ... one of your distant relatives, remember?”
“No matter. And exactly where were you headed, Ms. Moore?”
“Ahhh, that’s the thing Hiram. I’m a tourist, with reservations to stay right here in Paris ... contributing to the local economy you might say. That should count for something I should think. I’m booked at the Shady Rest. Nice place. You can check with them. They're expecting me.”
“Really? Well, Ms. Moore, I hate to break this to you, but the Shady Rest is the town brothel. So you were headed here to work for Madame Helen Tree, were you? Tsk tsk. What a shame! Now I’m going to have to add attempted prostitution across state lines to the charges against you. And I wouldn’t be surprised if this car is stolen too. Why would someone with a name like Hanging Tree loan his car to the likes of you?"
"But ... but ..."
"You’re under arrest. I need to read you your rights, frisk and cuff you. Kindly get out of your vehicle, Ms Moore, turn and face it with open hands on the top of the door frame ... oh, and spread your legs!”
