Infinitive Splitter

There’s a hole in the roof of my car that appears to have been made by a swiftly moving, cylindrical projectile with a diameter roughly equivalent to that of a ball-point pen. Naturally, I’m interested in the origin of the projectile — and the manner in which it was originally propelled — and I’m thankful not to have been in the vicinity of the car at the moment of impact.

I noticed the hole last week as I prepared to leave Washington for Thanksgiving in Pittsburgh. The light rain I encountered en route does not appear to have penetrated the roof (now sealed with duct tape) with the same success as the unidentified object, so I have crossed aggressive precipitation off my list of suspects.

Likewise, I have cleared the foul ginkgo berry of culpability. Amassing by the thousands in the local trees (which could only have been assigned to the neighborhood by a malicious or anosmatic civil engineer), the terrible seeds have made a mess of our sidewalks and cars, and filled northern Columbia Heights with the strong odor of vomit. But the berries are soft — thus easily crushed to release their perfume — and the evidence available all over my car indicates that they are more likely to smoosh than to smash. That’s a shame, since I’d love to give the city a reason to cut all the trees down, and “they’re blasting holes in our automobiles!” would be a good one.

The car survived DC’s annual quasi-legalization of fireworks last summer without a scratch, and I don’t imagine that the area birds are eating anything sturdy enough to be so destructive upon digestion.

What could it be?