Take notes. There are alternatives for renter folks who know how to look. Farms. I was living in a cabin that I built on a mountaintop in the Blue Ridge Mountains. It was pastoral on steroids. Hurricane Helene changed everything. It wiped us out. I am renting a house in town. The basement is filled with snakes. There are no services. Like trash. Hurricane trash has piled up ten feet high, little mountains themselves. No one is coming to haul it away. FEMA never showed. Not one person in authority has stepped up. A telephone pole (why do they call it that) was blown over, the wires are still whipping around in the wind. No one will take responsibility. Not our problem. Not our problem. Not our problem. I am going to attack the wires and the pole with a chain saw. Maybe then, I can haul it away. Every day, we sit around, deeply depressed, and we all have skin diseases from the flooding torrents. My skin is now totally inflamed. The water was toxic. We watch life go by. I got on my bike and roared out of town. When I need money, it’s Vegas. I gamble. I have never once lost. After a day, I drove home, and could make the rent. Vegas is its own rumble. Renting is about the cash. I count cards. I’m good at it. Autism must be worth something. Vegas is my bank. Fifteen dollars an hour is a pornography. I know a place next to the Carl Sandburg farm. I have lived on farms before. Life on a farm. Renting is a sweet revenge. The hurricane gods are the real landlords.