The Problem With Pittsford

Recently a woman was shot in Pittsford. Yes, that Pittsford. I can't recall a shooting there since that homicide some years ago when that elderly woman was gunned down during a robbery. Those are the only ones I remember since moving here in 1989.

I should've seen it coming though. The strange omens have been there. Like the premise of a bad Sci-Fi Channel movie or the plot of a mediocre Steven King novel, Pittsford must be built upon an Indian burial ground.

The first sign was when I got done swimming at the Nazareth Pool and walked into the men's locker room and was approached by a man as I was removing my jammers.

"Hey, do you want to see something strange?"

"Umm, you've got to realize that an ass-whoopin' often follows that line in a locker room."

He laughed, "No, not like that, look here."

He held up a pair of circa 1970 threadbare swim trunks torn completely from stem to stern. The only thing that would retain any of the wearer's dignity was a thin and see-through mesh.

"I caught it on the lane line and it ripped it wide open. Damn thing attacked me. Had to get up and leave before they called security on me."

Stage one complete: Inanimate objects attack. Break to commercial for Sham-Wow.

Later that week I was driving home through Pittsford when I saw a mailman running down a driveway looking over his shoulder. I was waiting for a ferocious, drooling Pit Bull traveling at Mach I speed but what appeared flapping and running down the driveway in black-feathered barbarism was two enormous turkeys. Yeah, that's right, turkeys. And not like the jive-turkeys of the 70's...honest to goodness Meleagris Gallopavo; Wild Turkey...not the drinking variety either. I had a moment of wondering if I was seeing this or if I should check myself into the psychiatric center when I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw a woman laughing so hard as to compromise her continence. The Tom caught the mailman and began nipping at his elbow. The mailman put on a burst of speed and opened up a slight gap. He was half-concerned and half-amused. The light turned green and I was denied seeing the outcome.

Break to commercial for Cash For Gold

I combed the newspaper headlines for days waiting for: Turkey Massacre or Postman Makes Tetrazzini of Attackers.

They might have to add to the postal service oath: Neither rain nor snow nor sleet nor dark of night nor Wild Freakin' Maniacal Turkeys shall stay these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.

So you see the signs were there all the time if you know what to look for. I'm going swimming in Webster for a few days until the craziness in Pittsford settles down.