This is story about Mr. W-B, not about me, but I cringe every time I hear the story. Years ago, he would fly from SFO to BOS with his mother two brothers to spend their summer on Cape Cod. Father would arrive later for the end of the summer.

On one particular trip, at some point his brother turned to him, casually, and then threw up all over Mr. W-B's lap.

Poor Mr. W-B. He still remembers the looks of pity from fellow passengers as he went to clean up. I don't know which he suffered more from: the angst of being covered with vomit or the physical reality of being covered with vomit?