A craptastic assortment of street litter, including crushed soda cans, empty energy drink containers and the wrappings from a dozen discarded purchases all bungeed up together in a sea foamy like grounded grass swirl lay in the gutter for his inspection. Perched over this pungent insect coated mess and poking at it with a street stick was Milo Mumford, a local homeless shelter enthusiast, as he preferred to call himself. Standing, then kneeling, then moving in for an even closer look, he eyed the open grated storm sewer display with due diligence. Across the street someone called out, “ Hey get off the street old man!” Milo however paid no attention to them and muttered under his breath, “Who says I am homeless anyway? “ Obviously in a full argument he seemed to be having only with himself. “ I live right here! Just because I live on the streets does not mean I got no home.” Milo’s territory ran from Hoover to Carson and back to Eisenhower and Lincoln; a tidy four block square. Anything that touched the ground or was discarded in that area was his to sell, but the new kids on the block selling drugs did not like seeing an old man poking around in the gutters. Bad for out of town business they told him. Milo referred to them as street crud. He considered himself an asset to the community; regardless of the fact eighty percent of it was transient. Looking down upon the array of motorway runoff for anything that might be of value he remembered once finding a gold chain tied up in street washout. Perhaps the owner was still looking for it in their car and wondering where it could be. “Finders keepers,” Milo said out loud and continued his search.