I wasn't going to add this Post Script to the story, but what the hell............
Later that year, when we were running pump house every weekend (every damn weekend!) and the bar at State Bridge was doing landslide business on Sunday afternoons, we rolled in with our usual suspects.
After a round or two of Jelly beans (do not be fooled by the name, my spirit left my body the first time because of incautious contact with them) Chicken Raper was sitting at one of the tables in the bar, as usual, without trying, being the life of the party.
Now, this is in the bar. Not the "restaurant". The restaurant where they served everything but eggs and chicken. Honest. I don't recall ever seeing any poultry on the menu, around the place, and for damn sure, no eggs. None. Zip. Zero.
In any case, Chicken raper said something about the restroom and got up from her chair. And big Mike pointed to the floor under her chair. Where a broken raw egg was oozing into a rancid puddle.
Any doubts about her river name were instantly dissolved. And the mystery of how that egg came to be there, under that particular chair where Chicken raper chose to sit, remains unsolved.
She always accused Mike of leaving the egg, but the fact is, Mike had no more ability to carry an egg unbroken for two days than I could run Snaggle tooth without breaking something.