Floyd stood holding a cold can of Coors Light. With each drunken wave of his hand, beer splashed from the lip of his can onto the sleeve of his dull-brown coat. He talked about how he was considering a Veterinarian degree now that he’d been fired from the ski lift up on Crested Butte. Apparently a flask of Jack Daniels wasn’t required snow gear.
As I walked up the hill toward my dormitory in Lacoste, France, I found myself searching for a pile of dog shit to photograph. For the past three days, I’d been meaning to send a picture of one to my friend Cindy back in the States. Always excited about one thing or another, Cindy was known for exclaiming, “Poop!” with a wide smile and a short hop. It was her response to a funny joke, an unfunny joke, good or bad news, and damn near everything else.
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