The crowd at Bethesda Fountain on Thursday was heaviest at the north end, where a young man played jazz violin with an amp hookup, accompanied by recorded percussion.  I thought he might be the same guy who’d shown up yesterday; that guy moved his amplification to a few different locations around the fountain, definitely encroaching on me in the process.  I’d thought then that this might be a one-time event for him, so I’d dug deep for my aloha spirit, and let him be.

Now here he was again.  I approached and waited for him to finish his piece.  He was an accomplished musician.  While he played, I watched the people walk up and drop money, including fives and tens, into his already-brimming case.  When he finished, I spoke to him.

“Hi, I’m Mr. Ukulele.  You may have seen me yesterday over there.”  I pointed to the east end of the fountain, what I think of as center stage.  “There are very few regulations around here, but one of them is no amplification.  We buskers have had trouble here in the past:  they’ve cleared us out altogether by declaring this whole area a Quiet Zone; police have arrested people.  For the last 2 years, things have been better, because we buskers self-police.  We don’t want another crackdown.  So please lose the amp, or you’ll ruin it for all of us.”

“I didn’t know,” he said.  “I just got to New York 5 days ago.  And I’ve been very sick, it effects my eyes.  Thank you for telling me.”

“Ok, I’m going to play somewhere else,” I said.  “Good luck.”

For the first time this season, I set up under the maple tree along the path to the Boat House.  I prefer this location when it’s 100 degrees, not on a day like today, in the high 60’s with a cool breeze off the lake. And it’s a terrible location for tips.

After singing to the birds in the mulberry tree, to the rowboat tenders on the other side of the fence, to the puffy white clouds floating high above the towers of Central Park West, I saw a familiar face.  It was Joan, who years ago sang “Did You Ever See a Dream Walking” with me.  She updated me on her musical career, which seems to have taken off about the time we first me, when she was 70.  She also told me about her friend, who posted a picture on Facebook of me and a little child.  “I told her, ‘I know him, we sing together in the park.’”

“Here’s my card,” I said.  “Ask her to send it to me and I’ll post it on my site.”

My first donation came after 40 minutes.  A young couple, with a toddler not yet 2, were ecstatic about how the boy swayed and bent at the knee to my music.  I lured him in with my baby lei; he wouldn’t let me put it over his head, but with mom’s help he did it himself.  I gave mom a lei too, and together they danced to “The Hukilau Song.”

Carole the photographer came walking by.  She was distressed to see me on the path.  “This is terrible,” she said.  “Why aren’t you at the fountain?”  I complained about the violin player, not only about his amplification, but about how he had got to his spot before me.  She made an angry face and said again, “This is terrible.”

With 20 minutes left in my set, and $2 in my case, I started thinking about whether I’d break even, when a dad gave his young son a buck for me.  A woman tossed me a Susan B. a little later, accounting for my $4 day.