The scene is the men's room of a large, Houston, Texas, hotel during a week-long gathering of international photographers, dealers, publishers, and critics.
I enter the men's room and see Jack, an employee of the sponsoring organization, a man a decade older than myself, standing at one of the urinals. We nod and I take my position a polite two urinals down the line.
Pause.
Enter a thirty-year-old Israeli photojournalist. We all three nod. He takes the middle urinal, pees, and exits.
Pause.
My pitiful victory: I still leave before Jack.
And with pictures no less.
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