It would be hard to call it a meeting. I wasn’t introduced to him, and he didn’t know my name. Still, there was an emotional connection between us. I irritated him, and a couple of thousand people watched it.

It was December 1964. I was on break from my first college semester and a newly hired usher at Orchestra Hall, the home of the Chicago Symphony.

The guest conductor was Willem van Otterloo, a Dutchman soon to be 57. He was serving as music director of the Residentie Orchestra in The Hague, and making a guest appearance in the Windy City. The program included the first Symphony of Brahms, a stupendous work I looked forward to.

My new colleagues were black and white, mostly music students, an amiable bunch in love with classical music.

The job was easy to learn. I already knew the auditorium seating locations, and handing out the program booklets required no well-trained skill. We wore mufti to the concerts, including required dark trousers. Once in our section of the basement location, we picked out a fitting uniform jacket from the rack.

Small tears in the cloth were common. We were paid little but didn’t care much about that or the outfit. We came for the music.

One of the instructions we received was not to seat anyone after the signal to close the doors that led inside. If a patron came to the first half late, he had to wait for a break in the music to be seated. Even less opportunity to enter existed if he missed the beginning of the second half.

On the evening in question, the interval was ending, and the doors for the second half had already been closed. I was stationed in front of the entrance to the center aisle of the main floor.

The audience was quiet, anticipating Maestro van Otterloo and the magnificent Brahms, full of big tunes and towering climaxes. The composer had waited until he was 43 to create this masterpiece.

Suddenly, a man appeared before me, asking if he could be directed to his seat and pushing his ticket toward me. I assumed I could find the location quickly and return to the lobby before the music began.

I opened the door, stepped in, and only then looked at the ticket. “Oh, geez,” I said to myself and sped up. The fellow’s place was the first seat of the first row, right of the aisle. That was not good news.

Halfway down the path, the audience began to applaud, indicating that the conductor had started his walk to the podium from backstage. I was still on a bullet train to the end of the line. Skidding to a stop along with me, the gentleman was seated.

Then I made my mistake.

I looked up at the baton-smith, maybe 10 feet away.

He looked down at me, which can be understood in two ways, both true: I was beneath him and a lowly usher in a crappy uniform who intruded on his art, to boot.

Willem’s expression was the equivalent of a slap in the face while simultaneously sticking out your tongue. It was the dirtiest look I have ever received.

To call it a sneer sounds too mild. A momentary fit of disgust. His visage displayed contempt as if he were uttering, “What in God’s name are you doing here? Do you know who I am”

I spun around, completed my return trip to the lobby, and the music began.

Like you, I have had more than a few subsequent embarrassments since my first year at a university. Never, however, in front of a filled auditorium.

Wikipedia states that Willem van Otterloo lived until he was 70 in 1978. In the Netherlands, he was married and divorced four times (including one remarriage and divorce). A fifth marriage occurred in Australia.

All of this suggests that he had much more trouble than I caused him.

I guess I got the last laugh.