1. International Aloha

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    September 25, 2015 by admin

    The Pope had not yet arrived in town, but the park was ready for him. An 8-foot fence had been set up around the perimeter of the park north to 81st Street, enclosing the benches that line Central Park West. Even the Majestic, the twin-towered coop at CPW and West 72nd St., had prepared for the crowds by wrapping all its plantings, those around the building as well as those in the curbside tree wells, in protective plastic day-glo orange netting.

    The day was ideal, warm, dry and bright with sunshine from a clear blue sky. No one else was working the fountain, so I gladly assumed center stage. An Israeli honeymoon couple was the first to contribute, 51 cents. A man from Spain gave me $1, followed closely by a young Romanian man and a red-bearded Turk, neither of whom gave me anything. Two Argentine women danced the hula. A couple from parts unknown gave me a dollar before sitting along the rim of the fountain near me. When I looked for them later to find out where they were from, they were gone.

    The Romanian man had been sitting on the cement benches, and after listening to several songs and watching a hula or two, walked up to me and put $3 in my case. “You are awesome,” he said.

    A Turkish woman stopped to give me a dollar and ask what instrument I was playing.

    The international flavor of the tourists in the park no doubt stemmed from the opening session of the UN General Assembly, scheduled for tomorrow. A tall man in his early 20’s was the last contributor of the day.

    “Where are you from?” I asked.

    “Iceland.”

    I reached out to shake his hand. “I’ve been doing this for many years, and you are my first Icelander.”

    “I’m not surprised, we are a very small country,” he said.

    The evil curse of the last few weeks had been lifted. With over $9 in my pocket — hardly a blow-out day, yet certainly respectable — I made my way out of the park, past the barricades. Tomorrow, Pope Day, I’ll stay home.

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  2. The Autumnal Equinox

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    September 23, 2015 by admin

    The cool weather has arrived. People in the park were bundled up in sweaters and coats. At the fountain, the cowboy was back in the northwest corner; Meta was installed on the bench. I sat down to chat.

    “I hope you don’t expect to make any money today,” she said. “I’m lucky if I can get anyone to give me a quarter.”

    “I have no expectations. They last few times I’ve been out have been dismal.”

    “Do you want to play here? I’ve already been here 4 hours, I’m going home. Maybe this is your kind of crowd.”

    As she packed up, I laid out my paraphernalia and started my set. Before pushing her harp up the hill to the east, Meta pulled her granny skirt above her knees and did a little hula. “Here,” she said, tossing a coin in my case. “Let me get you going with 10 pesos.”

    “Any idea what’s it’s worth?”

    “About 50 cents, not nothing,” she said.

    A good thing, too, because once again it was a dismal day for buskers. After an hour of singing my heart out, after a Romanian walk-away, and a lunch crowd audience devoid of aloha, Meta’s pathetic 10 peso coin still laid there all alone. It looked very like a zero dollar day; in fact, I perversely hoped that it would be, so I would no longer have to wait for its inevitable arrival.

    Mothers pulled their children closer when they saw me. Women clutched their purses; men patted their back pockets to make sure their wallets were still there. In the eyes of those who walked by, Mr. Ukulele must have seemed dangerous, menacing, a threat to persons and property.

    After 85 minutes, a woman in her 70s stopped a few steps from me and made a quarter turn away so I couldn’t see what she was doing. Clearly, she was digging in her handbag. Too often I’ve seen this maneuver, and been disappointed when a cell phone or a camera emerged, rather than the money that an appreciative passerby might give me. This time, however, a dollar did appear and was laid carefully in my case.

    In the last 5 minutes of my set, 2 Polish girls danced a wild hula , full of arm-waving and high-stepping. Breathless, they returned the leis and walked off.

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  3. Accordion 1, Mr. Ukulele 0

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    September 16, 2015 by admin

    There’s a variety of dogwood that forms spiky ping-pong ball sized fruit. They hung threateningly over the head of the button seller. They were pink, going to red, like an unripe strawberry. The button seller said they tasted nasty, though he’d never eaten a ripe one. “Did the birds and squirrels get to them first?”

    “The tourists,” he said.

    The homeless kid at the Imagine Mosaic sang “Here Comes the Sun.” The day was nearly as perfect as yesterday, low-80s, low humidity, cool, gusty breeze; so I say it’s all right. At the traffic light near Daniel Webster, the bicyclists stopped when the light turned red. “Thank you for stopping,” I said, passing in front of them.

    A man shouted from the back of the pack, “It’s ok, we’re Canadian.”

    The cowboy was at the fountain with his amp. He’d added a saxophone to his taped arrangements. I twisted around to see if he was playing his guitar at all, but I couldn’t tell. Farther up the path, three guys were on the bench where Meta often sits at her harp. Two of them played jazz riffs on acoustic guitars, while with his toe the third pushed his upturned baseball cap a little farther into the path.

    When I got to the maple and started to set up, I heard the accordion, somewhere over by the boathouse. He wasn’t particularly loud, still I heard him. I walked to the end of the path and looked, but I couldn’t see who was playing. His music was slow and mournful, with long pauses between songs. I didn’t want to go anywhere else, so I finished setting up under the maple. I justified my decision in accordance with a busker rule that states: if you can’t hear the other guy while you’re playing, you’re not too close.

    A portrait artist set up near me, chased from over the hill, I think, by the jazz guitars. The accordion, which I hadn’t heard for some time, resumed louder than ever. When I looked again, I saw him sitting on his stool, under a bush, an old man wheezing out his dirges. After 30 minutes, I’d made nothing. When the accordion finally went away, I decided to stay where I was.

    Jim, the big bubble man, walked by on his way to refill his bucket. “Is the cowboy still there?”

    “He comes every day. He’s not nice, not nice.”

    “But is he there now?”

    “Now? No, he’s gone.”

    “Then I’m moving,” I said, throwing everything loose in my case and carrying it over the hill, past the jazz guitars. But before I got much closer I heard the accordion, seated on the bench. Curses, I hissed, although I had to admire how he’d outmaneuvered me.

    Back where I started, I got my first quarter from the mom of 2 German girls. When it seemed as if the day would be a financial debacle, a statuesque Danish woman, with her 2 gorgeous Danish/Australian children stopped to hula. India was starting pre-K; her brother Sebastian was going into 2nd. I told a few lies, I’m afraid, so, children, if you remembered my web address and are reading this, despite you mother’s generous fiver, I do not make enough money every year to fly round trip to Hawaii.

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