He stepped off the elevator and paused when he saw the guy. He wore a bellhop’s uniform and was pushing a service cart, but he was inching along far too slowly to be going anywhere, and just hovered by the door to the Owner’s Suite.

He sighed and strode to the door. He ignored the guy, as he pulled a keycard from his pocket and slid it into the slot in the door.

“Excuse me, but who are you?” The guy demanded.

“Who are you?” He retorted.

“I work for the Four Seasons,” the guy explained, “And this is Brad Pitt’s suite.”

“That’s good, because I’m Brad Pitt.”

He turned toward the guy and spread his arms wide, as if that would give him a better look. He was short, dumpy, balding, and wore thick-framed glasses. He looked closer to Jason Alexander than he did to the person this guy was expecting.

“No, you’re not,” the guy insisted.

“I am.” He pulled his wallet from his pocket, and handed his driver’s license to the guy.

Bradford Gaines Pitt of La Jolla, California, the guy read.