Me and Skip and Charlie Sheen
(This was an actual dream I had the morning of Wednesday, October 16, 2013)
Stormin’ Norman & his beautiful wife Chay Laviolette had moved to Phoenix, AZ. A few months later, I & my daughter moved there also. And then a few months after that, Skip Cole moved there too.
Skip and I own a pub in front of the condo’s where we live. Although we both own the pub, I also have a side business selling an emailed stock newsletter. When Skip first got to Tempe, Arizona (not Phoenix actually), he had some extra money because he had sold his house in East Brookfield for a profit which he wasn’t expecting. After paying off his bills, moving to Phoenix (Tempe) and buying the condo, Skip still had $50,000 left over. I had $50,000 saved up from selling the newsletter. The pub in front of the condo was for sale for $100,000. So we decided to buy the pub next to the condo complex we lived in.
On Friday night’s we had Stormin’ Norman and his beautiful wife Chay do karaoke for us at the pub. Skip and I always sing and we all have a great time. After a couple of months all 4 of us had become good friends, but then one night Chay tells us she and Norman won’t be available on a Friday because they have a private party BBQ in the afternoon and they are DJ’ing at a private party at a nightclub (The Purple Palace) (and Grille) later that evening. “But,” says Chay. “you guys can come to both as our invited guests.” Skip & I both agree.
Skip & I have been karaokeing at the BBQ. It broke up early in the afternoon. Although we usually drink, neither of us have had too much to drink because we got to the BBQ so late. However, one blonde woman has obviously had way too much to drink. We recognize her as one of the women from our pub — one of the “regulars” — but neither Skip nor I can remember her name. She recognizes us also and asks us if we can give her a ride home. Skip says ok. I ask her name and she says “Chalmers.” Chalmers? Whatever. Me & Skip just look at each other and let it go. We get into Skip’s car and leave.
Skip has a big SUV type car with 2 backseats, one in the way back. Chalmers climbs into the back seat and lays across the seat wrapping a blanket that was in the car around herself. As we leave the parking lot and travel about a quarter mile down the street we see another blonde woman we think we recognize from karaoke nights at our pub. We also saw her at the BBQ. She’s younger and cute and as we stop next to her she stops walking and looks at us.
Rolling down the window I ask her if she wants a ride. She hesitates and looks in the car and notices the passed out woman in the back seat. I say, “That’s Chalmers, we’re giving her a ride home from the BBQ.” She says, “Oh, yeah. I know Chalmers. She looks really drunk.” I say, “Yeah. I’m Perry. This is Skip. We own the pub you karaoke at on Friday’s” She replies, “Oh, ok, I thought I recognized you. My name is Andi.” And Andi climbs into the car, over Chalmers sleeping in the back seat and into the far back seat.
A few blocks away from home, we hear some rustling from the back seat immediately followed by a “Bleeeeechhh!” and then a horrible stench. Chalmers has vomited in the back seat! “It’s ok!” she says, “I got it all in the blanket!” We travel a couple of minutes more but the smell of hot vomit is permeating the car. Skip says we have to get rid of the blanket. And Andi is complaining from the far back seat that she can’t stand the smell and if she can’t get out she is going to vomit too. We pull over and I get the blanket and throw the blanket on the side of the road. Andi gets out from the back and sits in the front passenger seat. I think she likes Skip. I think Skip likes her. “Darn!” I think. I get in the car behind Skip next to Chalmers.
Driving further, the smell is overwhelming even with the windows open. “Skip, we can stop at the CVS and get something to spray the car. And maybe some mouthwash too!” I say that last part a little too loud. “Okay,” Chalmers meekly replies from next to me.
The CVS is just a couple of blocks away from our condo’s and the pub. The CVS is next to a factory where the owner hates me for some reason. Whenever I go there or even go by there and if the owner sees me he always comes out and starts yelling and screaming at me. He claims I’m stalking him and his business and I want to damage his property. Looking at the factory, it’s a trash heap. It has big tin walls going up about 20 feet. There’s a driveway leading from in front of the CVS to a garage door which is the main entrance to the factory. Just inside and to the left are 2 offices. The main factory floor wraps away to the right so you can’t see what they do there or how the factory is laid out. The factory has two more garage doors at the side entrance enclosed by open iron gates.
Skip stops and I get out from the back seat. I don’t notice the owner is standing in the garage door at the front of the factory talking to someone. I had taken my shoes off so I’m walking into the CVS in stocking feet when the owner of the factory approaches the car & starts yelling & screaming.
I really don’t want to get into it with this guy but he’s yelling so I walk around to the passenger side of the car and I realize the back foot or so of the car is partially blocking his driveway. Maybe that’s what set him off — this time. We’re standing facing each other and he’s yelling and screaming and saying I have been coming around three times a day stalking him and looking into his factory for the past 2 months. Not true, since I have been in Texas for 3 weeks and just got back a week ago. Obviously the guy is nuts or something. I try to reason with him and get him to calm down. Eventually he does and I say we should discuss this like reasonable men. To my surprise he agrees and invites me in to his office. I look back and tell Skip I’ll just be a few minutes. I’m still in just socks walking across the driveway and he opens the door to the second office and motions me to have a seat at a conference table there. He asks if I’d like some water. Trying not to be unreasonable, I sigh, but agree to the water.
He leaves and as he closes the door I hear it lock. I jump up and try the door and it is indeed locked. There is another door at the other end of the office, but that door is locked too. Now I can hear the sound of the garage door closing and I hear the guy start yelling into the phone in the office next door. “Help! 9–1–1! I have a terrorist locked in my office! He came in with a gun and was threatening to kill everyone! He dropped the gun but I have him locked up! He’s crazy! He’s going to kill us all!,” and on and on. Now I’m panicking. What’s this guy going to do to me? What will the police do when they get here? Will they think I’ve taken hostages? Just then the opposite door opens — the door to the factory, and a young male sticks his head in. “Come on!” he says “I can get you out!” I leave and we head to the back garage doors that open to the side street. The young man says, “He’s going crazy in there! The police are on the way.” Which is true as I can now hear sirens from all over Tempe converging on this spot.
We pass a young woman at a stamping machine stamping out some parts. As we near her she turns off her machine and heads further into the factory — the same way we are going. Up ahead there is a line of employees at a time clock waiting to punch out. Quitting time. The young man continues as the sirens get louder — and closer — “Maybe you can say you’re having a dilemma,” says the young man. “A dilemma?” I think, “what is he talking about?”
The back garage doors are large enough for a semi to back in and are currently barred by 8 foot tall iron gates that are normally open when the factory is open but are now closed. The freaked out owner has closed and locked every door in the building from the sanctuary of his office. I can still hear him yelling at 9–1–1 although I can’t make out what he is saying.
I hear the screeching of the tires of the first police car as it comes to a stop — in the front drive way I presume. I hear other cars coming to a screeching stop from all around the building. Sirens are everywhere. The employees start running and hiding behind machinery and I hear cops outside yelling. As I approach the iron gate I wonder how I am going to get out. Just as I get to the gate a police car stops in the middle of the street in front of the gate. I jump for the gate and begin clambering up. Fear and panic make it easier than expected.
As I get to the top and am about to jump outside into the street, Skip’s car comes flying up swinging around the corner of the building. Skip throws open the back door and yells “Get in!!” I jump down and into the car and Skip goes straight ahead — to the CVS — the only way that is unblocked by police cars. We go about 20 feet and a police car comes skidding to a halt right in front of us. Skip slides to a stop. I jump out of the car and start running, but another police car stops just a few feet in front of me. I stop running — no place to go. A cop approaches me from the right as another cop from behind me screams “Stop! Or you’ll be tasered!” At that instant I feel like a bee sting on the back right side of my neck. I reach back to slap the bee and feel two wires. One is loose. It bounced off my collar and fell away. I grab the wires and throw them to my right side — right at the cop to my right. At that moment I am tackled by the whole posse.
I’m in jail being interrogated. I’m in an interrogation room. It’s a typical room just like you see on TV. Big glass window, one steel table in the middle, two chairs everything. I’m sitting in one chair. I am not handcuffed. The other chair has a cop yelling at me. “Tell us the truth!” he yells. “I am telling you the truth!” is my response. I tell the whole story again — several times. I don’t know the factory owner. I never worked for him. I didn’t know what they make at the factory and even though I have been in it now, I still really don’t know. I just saw some stamping machines and a few people welding until everything went to pot. I haven’t been stalking the factory or the owner or anyone there. I don’t care what they make there and from what I saw, whatever they make is just junk anyway. The police say the owner said I was a terrorist and had been stalking the factory for months.
At one point the cop jumps up and slams his hands on the table, “Tell us the truth!” he screams, “it will go a lot easier for you if you do!” I jump up and slam my hands on the table and yell back “Someone had better start telling the truth because it will go a lot easier on all of us if they do!” Another cop who had been standing in the corner of the room steps forward and pushes me back into my seat. At that moment I think “How cool would it have been if I had said, ‘You can’t handle the truth!’” But the moment has past.
At one point I say, “If I was a terrorist, why would I walk into a building unarmed, in stocking feet, with two beautiful women in my car?” One of the cops tells me I tried to taser one of his officers. “You tasered me first!” I say. “What about the guy?” I ask. “He kidnapped me! Why isn’t he here? Why aren’t you questioning him?” To this I get no reply.
After I keep telling them the same story over & over — I have no idea who this guy is or why he hates me or why I’m being interrogated — and I ask for a lawyer, the police officer says they can hold me as an enemy combatant and never let me go. I say “Ok, I invoke the Geneva Accords. As a POW, I don’t have to tell you anything except for my name, rank & serial number.” This goes on for another hour or so so now I’ve been here about 2 hours. After more questioning I tell them, “Perry Jones, U.S. Army, E-4, 00043” An Army serial number hasn’t been used since WW2 or something & only SSN’s are used — as far as I know — but 00043 was my actual basic training number. After every question that’s all I say. One cop says, “if you just tell us the truth, we can get to the bottom of this.” I answer, “Perry Jones, U.S. Army, E-4, zero-zero-zero-four-three.” The cop replies, “that’s not a real serial number. A serial number has nine digits.” You know what I say to that: “Perry Jones,…”
About two and a half hours go by and they leave me alone in the interrogation room for a few minutes. Then the door opens and a different police officer says “Follow me.” I walk out and we walk over to a desk in the squad room. “Have a seat.” I sit and am thinking, “I’m still not handcuffed, they must think I am REAL dangerous.” One of the cops comes over and stops before me and says “I’m going to call the Army and get to the bottom of this.” I’m thinking, “Good luck, I haven’t been in the Army in 20 years, I doubt they can even find my records,” but I remain silent.
The police get on the phone and are talking with someone in the Army. The police officer says, “I know a serial number is 9 digits but he keeps telling us ‘zero-zero-zero-four-three.’” After some discussion over the phone and then some silence the officer resumes talking to whoever is on the other end of the phone. He stops talking and just listens and then his whole face just drops, his eyes get big and he turns white as a sheet and slowly turns his head to look at me.
He puts the phone down without saying a word and slowly starts walking over to me. He is stopped by another officer. They have a quick, intense discussion that I can’t hear and then the officer continues to walk over to me. By now the whole squad room is silent and the 10 or so other officers there are all looking at me. The officer stops in front of me and says, “Mr. Jones. You are free to go.” I’m thinking, “What! Is 00043 like a James Bond number? A license to kill? Must be some kind of ‘get out of jail free card.’”
As I walk out the door in my stocking feet, Skip and the two women are standing outside the door. Skip tells me they have been interrogated for about an hour and that the police have also brought in every employee of the factory. Every employee declared that they had no idea who I was, they had never seen me before nor was I ever seen around the factory. Skip said he and the women also vouched for the part of the story that they had witnessed; about the factory owner coming around and yelling after we had stopped the car, he getting calm and inviting me into his office, then locking the doors and then all the police began arriving.
We get into the car and leave but Skip is really mad about all this. Can’t really say I blame him. We drop the women off and we drive toward the condos where we live. Skip hasn’t said a word since we got into the car.
Skip & I own a pub at the front of the complex where we live. Skip isn’t talking to me now. I go to the clubhouse (common for large condo & apartment complexes) and Skip goes into the pub. In the clubhouse which has the appearance of a big living room, there are 4 men there. 3 are seated on the big chairs watching the big screen TV and the 4th is at the water cooler. I plop into a chair just to drift away and try to forget about the whole day, my head back, staring at the ceiling. Just then the guy at the water cooler starts talking to his buddies — the other 3 men in the room — and I kind of recognize his voice. I sit up in my chair and look over just as the man stands and starts walking back. It’s Charlie Sheen! I say, “Hey! You’re Charlie Sheen!” Charlie kind of smiles that smile you always see and says “Yeah, I know I’m Charlie Sheen!”
Charlie walks over and drops into a chair next to his friends — or bodyguards — and I am wondering what to say to this famous person. But it’s Charlie who breaks the ice. He asks me how long I’ve lived there and where I’m from. I get up from my chair and go to sit in a chair next to Charlie.
It’s getting dark now. It’s winter and the sun has just gone down. Charlie asks me if I want to play a game of volleyball with his “team” and he glances at the men with him. I hesitate. I’m not in shape and I haven’t played volleyball in many years. Charlie notices my hesitation and says “Does it look like I play volleyball regularly?”
“Come on,” he says, “go find a team, tell them you’re playing with Charlie Sheen. Who’s going to say ‘No’ to Charlie Sheen?” “Got a point there,” I think. “Ok,” I said, “but where are we going to play? It’s late and,…” Charlie interrupts me and says, “Leave that to me. I already have the manager running an errand for me and he should be here any minute.” And just at that moment, the manager walks in.
I get up and walk out to find a team hoping I can fill the roster with at least a couple of women, and as I do I overhear Charlie asking the manager to find a volleyball net and some lights so we can play a game of volleyball. We are kind of in luck, because this condo complex has everything, all the recreational equipment you could want, available for rent, and I had already seen a couple of volleyball nets set up in use on other occasions.
As I walk to the pub, I know there is no way Skip is going to believe I just met Charlie Sheen in the clubhouse. Walking into the pub, I see Skip mixing a couple of drinks behind the bar. There’s only about 15 or so people in the bar, but it is early yet and we don’t have karaoke tonight so we will probably have a light evening tonight.
I notice Skip is wearing a green apron and a green stocking cap. “Where the heck did he get that?” I’m thinking. As I walk behind the bar toward Skip, Skip places the drinks in front of a couple of women as I ask, “Skip? What are you wearing?” He turns toward me but doesn’t say anything. He turns away and I walk up behind him. As he is getting another couple of drinks ready I whisper into his ear, “Skip, you aren’t going to believe this but, I just met Charlie Sheen in the clubhouse and he wants to play volleyball with us.”
Skip stops mixing the two drinks and turns and looks at me. “This is BS! Charlie Sheen is here? In our clubhouse? Right!” “No Skip, really!” I am very urgent and fortunately Skip can always tell when I’m serious about something. So I don’t think Skip really believes me but after a few minutes and getting the money for the drinks, Skip and I head for the door. Skip removes the apron and stocking cap, laying them on the counter. “Keep watch over the bar,” Skip tells the other bartender, “we’re going out.” “What gives with the outfit?” I ask. Skip just smiles and shakes his head, “Where’s Charlie Sheen?”
We get to the clubhouse and I expectantly open the door half fearing that Charlie and his entourage will be gone. Skip and I step into the clubhouse and it is as quiet as an empty tomb — and just as empty too.
Skip turns around and heads back out the door and I follow him out. I look around and see a group of people about 50 yards away down by the picnic tables. I tell Skip, “there he is.”
As we approach the picnic tables, it’s obvious this isn’t Charlie Sheen and his entourage, but it is somebody we recognize. There’s a band touring the country at the time and they had stopped by in Tempe on a previous visit. I and Skip had met them and they even dropped by our pub once about a month or two earlier. Now they were all dressed in black jeans and t-shirts but were also wearing green stocking caps. Looking at Skip he said with a smile, “Some girl gave me the cap when she walked into the bar.”
I ask the band members if they had seen anyone. I didn’t want to mention Charlie Sheen’s name because I didn’t want a hoard of people chasing Charlie away and there was about a dozen people here including the 5 or 6 band members. One guy looks up “No. We haven’t seen anyone.” I’m thinking they probably couldn’t see anyone if that person was right in front of them because the whole band seemed high and a couple of them were smoking meth. Skip and I turn away and start walking back to the bar.
A couple of men are standing outside the clubhouse and as we walk by one of them asks, “Are you guys looking for someone?” I replied that we were. He said, “They said they were going to Margaritaville and they would be back in about an hour and to let you know.” “Ok,” I answered.
I turn toward Skip, “Margaritaville? The only Margaritaville is In Scottsdale about 20 miles from here.” “No”, interrupted one of the men, “the old Margaritaville just reopened. It’s only about a mile from here.” “Oh yeah,” I said, “I remember. It was famous years ago — until about the 1960’s. Then it closed in the 70’s and they just had a big reopening. They call it ‘Margaritaville on the Lake’ because it’s right next to Tempe Town Lake.”
We start walking down the sidewalk toward the lake when we had gone a couple of dozen feet and we stop and look at each other. “The car?” I ask. “Yeah,” says Skip, “Why are we walking?”
As we approach Margaritaville on the Lake, I notice the place looks So empty. Only 4 cars are in the parking lot: 2 black SUV’s, a white car and a silver jeep — I’m thinking that Charlie is not here, 4 cars equals the cook, the hostess, the waitress and the bartender. There is probably no one here but employees. Great!
Skip parks and I walk into the lobby with Skip right behind me. The place is dead empty but soft Mexican music is playing. The hostess is no where in sight. We hear voices from the dining room and a clink of glassware, but the voices are too soft and indistinct to identify. I step to the entrance to the dining room and peek in. “Hey!” says a voice. “What are you doing here?” It’s Charlie Sheen! I am so relieved. “Hey.” he says as Skip and I walk over to Charlie’s table, “we’ll be done in about 20 minutes. Do you have your team together?” “No,” I said. “We’ll about to do that now.” “Ok,” said Charlie. “I’ll see you in 20 minutes. “
As Skip and I are leaving we turn to look at each other. We are both thinking the same thing. There is so much food in front of Charlie that it will take him at least an hour to work through all that food and the bartender had obviously been steadily supplying the table with drinks. Charlie wasn’t going anywhere soon. I’m also a little peeved that Charlie Sheen didn’t invite us to join him. After all doesn’t he drop something like $14,000 at the drop of a hat, I ask? Skip just says “yeah” to that as we walk back toward the car.
Skip turns the ignition and asks “Where to?” I think for a moment and then at the same time we both say “The Purple Palace!” “And Grille,” says Skip.
We leave The Purple Palace almost 2 hours later. We had eaten and Chay had even let Skip and I sing a song interrupting her DJ’ing duties. And then a couple of women had asked us to dance — so we did. But I’m thinking that Charlie has probably come and gone at the condo’s.
As we drive toward the condo’s we notice search lights in the sky — roughly in the direction where we are heading. “You don’t think?” I ask. “I don’t know,” Skip replies.
And then it’s obvious. The condo’s are lit up like a football stadium. There are lights everywhere. A couple of dozen people are standing around the lawn in front of the condo’s. One of the young maintenance men is pounding in a stake attached to a guy wire holding up the volleyball net. The volleyball net is a bright red with white corners at the top and appears to be brand new. The condo manager and the female assistant manager are nervously talking nearby.
As we are walking over to the net two black SUV’s pull up behind us. Skip and I stop walking and turn to see who the newcomers are. From the front passenger seat of the first SUV, a very drunk Charlie Sheen rolls down the window: “Are you boys ready to play?”
