THE CHICKEN STORY. When Mary Jane and I lived in the apartment on 14th Street, there was a period when every Thursday evening we would hear soft chanting, accompanied by what sounded like maracas being shaken. Then there would be the loud squawk of a chicken. And then silence.

One Thursday all this occurred when my mother was visiting and she asked Mary Jane what had happened. Mary Jane had an answer: Philip would explain when he got home from work.

Somehow when I got home from work and the question was promptly raised, the discussion got onto the puzzle of how one would get a live chicken by the doorman.

We never found out whether my mother had any suspicions about the chicken.

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