1. The Evening Show

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    August 10, 2016 by admin

    The cowboy looked at his watch. “One more number,” he told me. I set up, tuned softly and waited by the fountain through an interminable “Horse with No Name.” Finally, with a fade-out, the cowboy said to the passing crowd, “That’s it for the morning show. The evening show is about to begin.” It was a few minutes after noon.

    A lady, who had been listening from the benches, gave me the first dollar of the day. Shortly after, 2 college-age girls from Taiwan found time to hula. They were bright and energetic, and quite impressed that not only had I heard of Taiwan, I used to know it as Formosa.

    A 40-something Mexican woman caught my eye. “Have you got time for a hula today?” Reluctantly, she accepted the lei I put around her neck. “Do you know how to hula?”

    “Like this?” she said, waving her arms hip-high and waggling her fingers.

    “Perfect,” I said, throwing myself into “The Hukilau Song.” With a wry smile, the woman raised her arms higher, quieted her fingers, swayed her hips, and danced a beautifully restrained hula. “You’ve done this before,” I said. She winked. I picked up the tempo for the second verse.

    A thin blonde, in a ponytail and baseball cap, threw a crumpled fiver into my case as she strode by. “You made me smile,” she said.

    It was a hot day. As the sun rose higher, people who had sought the benches for the shade moved on. A few of them came by to show their appreciation.

    A family of 4 from Florida toddled by, mom pushing an empty stroller. Dad had given each child a quarter, with instructions. I stepped back and let the kids complete their task. “Now how about a hula dance?”

    “How about it?” said mom, taking a lei from me. I put leis on the little girls, perhaps 3 and 6 years old, and picked up a lei for dad. “How about it?” mom repeated. They danced joyfully en famille.

    After exactly 90 minutes, I packed up quickly, counted my money and got out of the sun. I made $15.60; the quarters came from the little girls, and the dime I missed from yesterday.

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  2. A Good Show

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    August 9, 2016 by admin

    On these beautiful August days, Bethesda Fountain can take on a circus atmosphere. The big bubble man waves his foamy netting and huge bubbles float up and over the heads of squealing children. Bubbles, like the ballerina – who was not here today – danced to the music from the arcade. Begging Buddhists snaked through the crowd, shoving prayer flags at people. Softly, from 2 shady corners around the fountain, came the calls, “cold water here,” “agua fria.” And now, ladies and gentlemen, appearing in the center ring, Mr. Ukulele.

    A troop of 4-year-olds in blue tee shirts were being herded down the path to the fountain by 2 adults. “Has this group got time for a hula?”

    I put 8 kids in leis, then had them trade off with 8 more for the second verse of “The Hukilau Song.” They were a day camp from Brooklyn. The leader, having rounded everyone up after the dance, gave me a 10-dollar bill, a sure sign of Brooklyn’s gentrification. As often as not, I get bupkis from the outer boroughs.

    A half dozen girls from Uruguay danced the hula, followed by 2 adolescent sisters from Israel, each with a dollar in her hand. At some distance, a woman was catching it all on video. She walked off, then came back with a donation. A 20-something man with a camera leaned against a stone block at the end of the benches and listened. After a few songs, he walked over, dropped 2 singles, walked back and continued listening.

    Off to my left a scruffy guy, shirt off, pant legs rolled to the knees, stepped into the waters of the fountain. I figured he was trolling for silver, but when I saw him again he was soaked from head to toe, as if from a shower. He stretched out in the sun to dry. Later, he pulled up in front of me on a bike, took out a money clip and peeled off a dollar.

    A thin, tall woman with fire-red hair passed in front of me a few times, scoping me out. She finally came up to me and said, “I want to dance.” Her accent was Russo-Slavic. “But first I get someone.” She gave me a dollar, to reserve her dance, then walked off to the benches. She came back with a middle-age man, positioned him, gave him some last minute instructions about recording, positioned herself, then gave me a nod to begin. This was no hula; instead she waved her arms, leapt and landed in grotesque postures, all fingers and eyes. At the finale, she collapsed into a tangle of limbs. I title her interpretation: “Dracula Goes to the Hukilau.”

    I left the park with $26 and change, and the satisfaction of having put on a good show.

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  3. Under the Shady Maple

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    August 7, 2016 by admin

    The routine maintenance on the Imagine Mosaic is done. One of the platoon guitarists sang “All My Loving” as I excused my way past him through the crowd. On the lawn to the left, moms and babies sat on blankets and clapped in rhythm to a ukulele one of the moms strummed; she marched and sang about a bus’s wheels.

    There was loud angry barking. A young man restrained his German shepherd. Mothers scooped up their babies. “It’s ok,” he said. “It’s only a squirrel behind you.”

    Did I mention the ballerina? A few days ago she danced, in white, en pointe, between the big bubble man and the stairs leading to the fountain. The music came from the arcade. She did not interfere with me; I turned my back and played my uke. Today she is in red, on my stage, and her music is recorded. The aloha spirit vanquished my inner policeman; I just kept walking.

    Under the maple, it was shady and cool. I set up between the woman selling cold water and the portraitist. An Italian family was picnicking on the rock behind me. Papa gave me a buck when they left.

    After 30 minutes, with a dollar in my case, I asked an eastbound passer-by if the ballerina was still at the fountain. He didn’t understand me, but a girl overheard and said, “Yes.” So I played on, enjoying the cool breezes, blue sky, puffy white clouds. A man in the passing crowd, my age, Bermuda shorts, madras shirt, panama hat and a bit of a belly, caught my eye. We locked eyes, exchanged smiles. He crossed over to me and put 2 quarters in my case. “You’re good,” he said.

    A 70-something woman studied my case. I asked her if she had time for a hula. “My name is Hula,” she told me. “Not shortened from anything. It’s a Polish name, like Don Shula.”

    “Then you must have done the hula all your life?” I put a lei around her neck and took her to the Hukilau. She gave me a dollar.

    A woman and child walked by. The child, about 9 years old, was happy to hula. As I sang about my Little Grass Shack, she sang her own words. At first I thought it was Hawaiian, but I soon observed that she had developmental problems. “Ok, let’s do this your way,” I said. I played, she sang and danced, until the last humuhumunukunukuapua’a swam by. The woman gave me a fiver.

    A mob of French girls did an extravagant hula, then kept walking.

    Three tall, blonde camp counsellors, in the US for the summer from Holland, Sweden and Belgium, argued whether the building with the 2 towers was the Dakota. I set them straight, telling them about the San Remo, “Ghostbusters,” and Emery Roth. We made a joke about Hungarians. They gave me $2 for the information, but would not dance a hula.

    A woman put some change in my case. Walking away, her husband asked if I knew “Tiny Bubbles.” That’s the second time in 2 days; I really ought to learn it.

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