Another person, possibly my friend Marco, and I were getting motorcycles out of an apartment in a high-rise apartment building.  We rode them down the carpeted corridor-I remember running and jumping on the pedals to get mine started.  Somehow we even rode them downstairs.  I had my wife Bonita with me, because we came to a big fancy area like a lounge or ballroom, and we were refused admittance because it was a men's club, and Bonita couldn't go in.  I was surprised she took that sitting down.  Down another corridor we came to a lot of people standing around drinking.  One of the men looked very much like Charlie Sanders.  He got sick and threw up twice in a corner.  Whether for that reason or some other, I was infuriated.  I would have hit him except for the fact that he was so sick.  Instead, I spit in his face.  Twice.  He must have been penitent for some reason, because he said he understood how I felt, and thanked me for not hitting him in the stomach.  Later on I was talking to Randy Allenson about it on the phone, and I asked him to guess who was involved-and Charlie Sanders was the first name he guessed.