Eighteen years ago when I was a college student from Oklahoma visiting New York with dreams of one day living here, I stood, not moving, outside the lobby of a Broadway theatre caught in the post-show throng and not knowing immediately which way to go. A hand reached out to guide me aside. I turned my head to see Ben Vereen pass. For the rest of the week, I reminded everyone in my tour group that Ben Vereen had touched me.Last night as I emerged from the theatre, I stopped, looking both ways down the street for the direction to my subway. Even after ten years of living in the city, it is still sometimes difficult to find my bearings. A hand touched my arm to guide me aside and I turned my head to see Ben Vereen saunter past.I happened to be walking in the same direction as he, so after about half a block when he stopped so his companion could take a phone call, I stepped in:“I would like to tell you a story,” I begin. A slight look of, was it fear?, crosses his brow. “Eighteen years ago outside a theatre you touched my arm as you passed an I was ridiculously thrilled. You just did it again!” Before I can continue blithering, he chuckles and reaches both of his hands out to take mine. “You got a good arm,” he tells me. “It called me back.”I laugh, wish him a good evening, and walk away, once again, ridiculously thrilled by Ben Vereen.Hey Ben, see you at the theatre! But let’s not wait another eighteen years.(*noted by JLP)
