A little Babushka tries to help me find my America.

I was in London recently for a forensics symposium when I realized that I should put out a reward for information leading to the arrest of whoever stole my America. I got excited before realizing that I could barely afford my return ticket home. So I went to Piccadilly Square in London and unabashedly begged for money. I had a little top hat that I placed on the ground in front of me and a sign around my neck that read “I liberated this sign from Iraq” and then I sat down and tried to be a human statue. Several Brits dropped some quid in my hat before I got a cramp and destroyed my illusion. So I sat there rubbing by calf muscle when a little girl, postcard cute and about five years old, appeared before me. She was standing beside her Russian looking mother whose arms were draped with shopping bags with names like Gucci and Prada. The little girl looked at me and then up at her mother who nodded approval. She went like a rocket to my hat and peered in at the booty. Unimpressed, she dug into her dress pocket and fished out what looked like a ruble and tossed it in the hat. Then, to my surprise, she came right up to me, knelt down, and whispered in my ear, “Your America’s in the gutter”. The little Babushka turned and left as quickly as she had come.
Was she right? And if she was, exactly which gutter is my America in? My gutter? My gutters are dirty and difficult to get to. My ladder is broken anyway and my lawn guy, Pedro, has been in Miami for fourteen months trying to flip his condos. I haven’t cleaned my gutter in years. I can’t get up on my roof anyway, not with my calf hurting so badly. Why don’t they make some sort of gutter cleaner for sorry blokes like me?