As if two non-paying summer jobs in New York City wasn’t enough, I managed to find another with the same too-good-to-turn-down characteristics.

The benefits were beyond “contacts” and “experience.” They fit the “stories to tell your grandchildren” category.

I was to be a talent escort for award shows, and my first gig was only a few days into the summer.

Escort can mean a lot of things, I know, which sort of excited me about the job.

But in this role, my Dirk Diggler fantasies would not be met.

An award show escort has a simple job, really. We were to be available to our assigned talent at all times to answer questions and show them where to sit.

More importantly, though, and the reason for our existence, was to make them feel like celebrities.

The Daytime Emmys was my sort of bootcamp. I had a simple assignment (“Bold and the Beautiful” temptress Ashley Lynn Cafagna) and I excelled.

The Tonys followed and were the real deal.

Some big celebs were booked and my name got thrown into the “experienced escorts” hat.

Would I be so lucky as to get hottie Sarah Jessica Parker or my “Pump Up The Volume” hero Christian Slater?

Of course not. I was from Iowa.

I got Bea Arthur.

I wasn’t too excited, but my mom told my grandma and she was, so I suppose I was doing it for her.

But, as it turned out, Bea was a lucky assignment.

She was the only presenter who was not with a date. In fact, she had spent the entire week alone in New York City.

So the amount of things she would need were more than usual.

Our first meeting was a little awkward. What do you say? I love watching “Golden Girls” reruns when “Saved By The Bell” isn’t on?

She was also a bit standoffish at first, until I was inspired by my initial motivation and decided to become like a grandson to Bea.

On our way out of rehearsal I pretended to be interested in Broadway, and asked her what shows she recommended.

She suggested a few and went on to ask a bit about myself.

My plan was working.

“Oh, I’m just a young college kid who came to New York on a whim to rediscover my identity.”

Bullshit or not, she was digging my Felicity-like vibe.

Our second meeting came several hours later when I drove in the front of her limo to pick her up at the hotel and bring her to “hair and makeup.”

Bea was the first guest to visit the room and the stylists greeted her with admiring words, but things were tense and a wall needed to come down.

Just as I was about to ask Bea if people were supposed to believe her mom on “Golden Girls” was really old enough to be her mom, she spoke.

“I look so fucking old,” she declared, staring into the mirror like Cinderella’s ugly stepsister.

The wall came crumbling down, and suddenly I was digging her vibe.

Could it be? Did this 70-something veteran actress share the same smart-ass attitude as I proudly wore on my forehead?

We were just about to part once again when Bea said the magic words: “Why don’t you come up to my room and get me when you come back.”

It’s not like I thought I would score, or would ever want to, but chilling in a luxury suite sure beat the hell out of going back to my shack deep in the New Jersey City hood.

Dressed to kill, I showed up at her door like a freshman going to the prom. I had no idea what to expect and when she offered me a drink, I was so nervous I turned it down.

It was the only drink — the only free anything — I turned down all summer.

Bea explained how she was nervous and how one drink usually calms her.

On the way to the limo she invited me to sit in the back, which was a lot like being asked to sit at the big kid table at Thanksgiving.

We talked about her, mostly, and the one-woman play she is writing about her life.

Although I’d rather see a one-woman show on the pink Power Ranger, I pretended to be enthralled.

When we got to the theater, mobs of star gazers lined the street. When the door opened, Bea grabbed my hand and said, “Walk with me.”

This lady was pulling out all the lines.

My stroll down the red carpet was exciting, but I kept picturing one of the photos being taken showing up in the Enquirer under a headline: “Bea Arthur’s young lover.”

Would grandma still be proud?

Once inside, I followed her to the Green Room, where the other escorts were standing outside, asking stupid questions like “Who do you have?” and “Is she cool?” It was like a celebrity Secret Santa game where the prize was the almighty invitation to the post party.

But I was with Bea and she needed me to carry her purse. Kind of an insulting job, but if it would get me into a living room filled with the likes of Kevin Spacey, Ben Stiller and Tony Danza, I didn’t care if the purse was packed with tampons and dirty Kleenex.

Conversation backstage was light, for the most part, but I managed to pick up Christian Slater saying something about his jail term and Julie Andrews accidentally cursing.

Calista Flockhart caught me checking her out and smiled. She had no idea I was thinking, “She really is disgustingly skinny.”

By the end of the night, I had a grab-bag of stories to tell and a picture with Bea Arthur.

Everything but that damn invitation to the post party.

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Corey Moss is a senior in journalism and mass communication from Urbandale.