I touched Liberace’s organ. Actually it was his piano. In any case I touched his instrument. How did I achieve such intimacy with a big, spangly, show-stopping star? I was a tour guide at Rockefeller Center.

The grand finale of each tour was a stroll across the stage at Radio City Music Hall. On one particular tour, Liberace’s ornate piano was in place and ready for him to tickle the ivories when I wound my way through the wings with the tourists. I wasn’t supposed to touch the props but I couldn’t resist. After all, I didn’t have the plague.

In the movies, of course, I would no sooner touch the keys and burst into song when I would be discovered by a talent agent among the tour group, then catapulted to stardom and have my opening night gala on the very same stage. As it was, I was lucky I didn’t get fired for messing with the scenery.

Every guide knew the lore of former alum, Gregory Peck, who got in trouble for falling asleep at the back of the Music Hall while his tour group ended up staying and watching the show for free. That gaffe certainly didn’t hurt his career too much.

David Letterman was another Rockefeller Center “brush with greatness.” In addition to the tours, the guides also manned the ticket desk to the observation deck atop the RCA building. One guide was coming off shift as I took over and mentioned that Letterman was out on the deck smoking a cigar.

Minutes later Dave appeared and eyed me suspiciously “You weren’t here before,” he said, “I must have missed the changing of the guard.”

I laughed overenthusiastically and tried to strike up a conversation about our shared alma mater, Ball State University, but to no avail. Wasn’t he supposed to offer me a job that would launch my showbiz career, then, later, we would reminisce on his show and throw our heads back and laugh about our first meeting? Only in my dreams.

Career-wise, subsequent star sightings were even less promising. I was at a mall in New Jersey when a shopper in front of me looked vaguely familiar. It was Celeste Holm.

Surprised to see an academy award winner standing in line like any other peasant, I asked “what are you doing here?”

“Buying towels,” she replied matter-of-factly, adding “my family has lived in this area since the 1700’s. What are you doing here?”

“Buying towels,” I concurred, trying not to sound like a copycat and feeling like an interloper, embarrassed to admit that my Irish ancestors didn’t exactly come over on the Mayflower.

New York was starting to feel like a small town when I ran into Ms. Holm again. We were sharing a crowded elevator at Carnegie Hall. There didn’t seem much point in reminiscing about our linen experience, so I said nothing. I knew she would be grateful.

I once found myself elbow to elbow with Nathan Lane in a mid-town nightclub. He was still incognito at this point in his career, I had seen him just the day before in a supporting role in a Broadway revival of Noel Coward’s Present Laughter and mentioned how I’d enjoyed his performance. He was enraptured. “Tell me more about myself” he said enthusiastically. He was an even bigger fan than I was.

A second sighting of Nathan Lane led to the most unique star encounter on my roster. I went to see him in Kaufman & Hart’s The Man Who Came To Dinner. At intermission, in the ladies lounge, the line was predictably long and someone was tapping preemptively when I opened the door. There before me was Kitty Carlisle!

Our ensuing verbal exchange was a little offbeat. I simply exclaimed “Miss Carlisle!” (‘Fancy meeting you here’ seemed too bourgeois.) Her simple reply, “Thank you” although a non-sequitur, sufficed as she maneuvered past me into the stall. Talk about the changing of the guard!

Even more intimate than touching Liberace’s instrument or buying towels with Celeste Holm was the serendipitous glee of sharing the powder room with the starlet of the Marx Brother’s classic A Night At the Opera and the wife of the playwright Moss Hart.

I did exchange glances with Woody Allen ringside at the Carlyle Hotel but that seemed like small potatoes compared with sharing the bathroom with Kitty Carlisle Hart.

Now if I could only find a creative way to use it on my theatrical resume.