A gray Thursday in the park, the platoon guitarist pleads “Let It Be” at the Imagine Mosaic.  By the lake, the jazz combo’s drummer pounds out a samba, joined by bass, guitar and horn.  Colin is still playing at the fountain, for another half hour, he tells me.  Along the path to my second venue, it is strangely quiet:  no caricaturists, hand-writing analysts, artists.  I set up under the maple, where, unlike at the fountain, I don’t need to project, so even my busking is subdued.

Then I spotted Eugene and his parents, fresh off the red-eye from California.  Eugene was a stocky early teen, with bright pink hair, shaved at the temples.  “Have you got time for a hula today?”

The parents kept walking, but Eugene had time.  I set him up with a lei and simple instructions, then off we went to the hukilau.  Mom and dad came back to take pictures, while Eugene grinned broadly through his orthodontics.  He told me he too played the uke.  I handed him mine, and his parents and I chatted until Eugene was ready to sing his song.

“I haven’t played in almost 3 weeks,” he said, by way of apology.  His first chord was D major 7^th, a teenage angst-filled chord if ever there was one.  When he was done, he handed the uke back to me and reached for his wallet.

“No, mom,” he said, when she offered to pay.  “This was my thing.”  He had a dollar out and ready.

“I’ve got it,” she said, and handed me a fiver.

“Thanks, Mom.”

I packed up my gear and headed for Bethesda Fountain, where Colin was finishing up.

A young couple walked by.  “Have you got time for a hula today?”

They were from Tennessee, he visiting her, who now lived in Flatbush.  They danced beautifully together, with beatific smiles, very much in love.  When I took back the leis, he handed me another fiver.  The warm aloha of Eugene and Tennessee had already made the day a great success.

All of a sudden, as loud as can be, “The Theme from the Godfather” crashed into my conscientiousness, played on the accordion.  I looked in the corners under the balcony formed by the stairs, both north and south, where accordionists, like cockroaches, can be found.  I looked along the edge of the fountain.  I couldn’t locate the source at first, but there he was, his back to me, not even 90 degrees from where I played.

There is an etiquette to busking, the first rule of which is you don’t set up against another busker.  Here was a gross violation.  I tried to ignore him.  When I moved farther from him, he moved closer.  It was maddening, hostile, intolerable.  What was I to do?

What I did do was finish out my set, put away my 2 fivers, pack up and head out, but just walking past the accordionist was not possible.  I strode up to him and said, “Next time you come out, how about looking around to see who else is here.  You didn’t even try to keep some space between us.”

“Vaffanculo.”

“What did you say?  Do you even know what I’m talking about?  Do you speak English?”  All the while he muttered unintelligibles, still playing his damned instrument.

Now that I’d lost my aloha, what?  Push him in the fountain?

It was time to leave.