1. Location, Location, Location

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    September 2, 2015 by admin

    On the first day of September, for some inexplicable reason, the cowboy set up on the opposite side of the fountain. I immediately claimed center stage. And just to prove, once again, that in matters of real estate location is everything, I made $17, multiples of August’s paltry daily take, in fact, the best since mid-June.

    A man with a backpack started me off, then a tween from Toronto danced for her mom. Three Spanish beauties romped around, waving their arms above their heads, as if they were palm trees in the breeze. An Australian man, whom I mistook for English, feigned insult, yet still dumped more than a dollar in change in my case.

    A 60-something lady gave me money. I was playing “My Baby Just Cares for Me.” “Don’t go yet,” I said. “I wrote a second verse.” At the final chord, she clapped twice, turned and headed for the stairs.

    A Brazilian man heard me playing “All of Me,” and wanted to sing it with me. “Can you play it in D?”

    “No,” I said. “Try this.” I played it in the only key I know, which is B, more or less. He sang beautifully, while I quietly filled in the English lyric when he stumbled. He was singing to his wife, who listened adoringly. He gave me $2, and went away complaining that the key was all wrong. I put the bills in my case, and noticed that someone had tossed in some change, including a Sacagawea dollar.

    A lady from St. Louis put a dollar in my case, saying, “Can I ask you a question? My friend and I think you’re retired from Wall St. and just doing this for a lark.”

    “You and your friend pretty much nailed it,” I said. “I am retired, this is a lark, and my office was downtown, but I didn’t work for a Wall St. firm, Wall St. firms were my clients.”

    “You were a lawyer?” She added, “I’m so nosey.”

    “I was a salesman, of technology services.”

    After talking about St. Louis for a while, she went back to her friend on the bench by the water, their curiosity satisfied.

    A bridal party showed up at the fountain while I was packing up. The photographer posed the couple near me. Seated behind my case, I picked up my uke and launched into “The Hawaiian Wedding Song.” The photographer smiled, but otherwise the picture-taking went on as if I weren’t there. After the coda, “I do/love you/with all my heart,” I put my uke away. The bridal party moved off. Last to leave were a pair of parents.

    “You probably thought I was going to stiff you,” said the man, putting 4 quarters in my hand.

    “You must be the father of the bride.” He nodded. “If you want to stiff me, it would be okay. I understand. You’ve probably been reaching into your pocket all day.”

    “No, no, you’re the least of it,” he said. “And besides, you sang beautifully.”

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  2. The Return of Mr. Ukulele

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    September 1, 2015 by admin

    I returned to the park on the last day of August, a humid day pushing 90 degrees. A gardener watered what remained at the entrance, still-blooming white aster, cherry pink begonia, annual pink vinca, purple angelonia, and a moon flower vine run amok. There were no roses, but their bright red growing tips were 8 feet high and rising. Bloomed-out cleome and phlox made a last ditch display, their delicate flowers shining in the sun like a bald man’s pate.

    The Boyd family singers colonized the arcade; they were using a CD-player for accompaniment. The curséd cowboy also had recorded music playing, even when he wasn’t. The summer is coming to an end and anarchy rules again. The only one who seemed to be doing well was the bottled water man, selling agua fria for a dollar less than the hot dog men at the top of the stairs.

    Under the maple tree, all was quiet. Bursts of people came by, followed by long stretches of solitude, when I could practice my new number, “My Baby Just Cares for Me,” and resurrect last year’s new number, “Down among the Sheltering Palms.” A passing 50-ish man, wearing a white panama hat like mine, put 76 cents in my case. Later, another man of similar age, with the same hat, gave me a dollar.

    “Have you got time for a hula today?” Two teenagers were walking by. She had close-cropped black hair, black lipstick, and was dressed in what looked like a wedding dress that had been cut down to a sun-dress. He was a handsome fireplug in a black tee shirt. I figured them for New York City kids and was right. She was attending Hunter College, he was studying aviation at Vaughn College in Queens. She gave up her solo hula at about the time we were throwing nets into the sea at the hukilau, grabbed her partner and pushed him around until they settled into something like a waltz.

    “Can we take a picture? You’re cool,” she told me, putting a buck in my case.

    At $2.76, I figured it was as good a day as I’ve had in weeks. While singing my finale, “Little Grass Shack,” a couple of girls from New Jersey stopped to dance. They floundered at first, then fell into line with a synchronized hula, with a few Jersey-style flourishes thrown in. They contributed a dollar a piece, and I went home feeling as if I’d overachieved.

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