Rotten fruit from a pretty tree.

After Henry and Scott leave for Henry’s school (Henry deigning to leave me with a distracted “I, uh, love you too” and a limp wave as he is wheeled down the stairs) I head out with Charlie. It’s overcast and damp from last night’s rain. The wind is thrashing the trees around, the leaves are swirling all over the sidewalk, and Charlie is leaping and snapping at them. It’s perfect.

We go for a longer walk than we usually do, and at each block Charlie looks up at me as if to say, “We…we’re not heading back? We’re still going? Are you shitting me?” and then he resumes his cavorting and peeing.

The ginkgo trees have begun dropping their uniquely nasty fruits all over the sidewalks. I don’t know if these trees are everywhere, but if you’re not familiar with them—take it from me. The fruit smells like puke. Charlie won’t even pee on it, that’s how bad it is.

Across the street, there’s a man in a business suit wearing latex gloves and holding a large bag. He’s carefully picking the fruits off of a car and dropping them into a bag. This strikes me as reasonable—would you want your car smelling like vomit?—but then I see him continuing his work on another car. As we walk, I can’t help but look back, and he’s moved onto a third.

Either he’s the most thoughtful neighbor ever, or that is going to be one indescribably foul pie.

UPDATE!: Apparently the ginkgo fruit is used in various Asian delicacies. Carry on, sir!