Chip R. Bell

I arrived at the Ritz-Carlton Buckhead in Atlanta late in the afternoon at the end of a week on the road.  My dress pants needed pressing for an early morning keynote.  Dialing the hotel housekeeping department I was told that someone would be right up to get my trousers.  Moments later, a tiny Asian women in her mid-fifties knocked on my door.  When I gave her my pants she informed me she would have them back to me in less than an hour.  “If you have to leave,” she told me, “your pants will be waiting for you in your closet.”