On Thursday, per the news, the “feels like” temperature was 95 degrees.  Not a great day to stand in the sun, yet on my last day in the city until Labor Day, not to be missed.  In the New York garden of the climate-altered future, evidence suggests gomphrena will dominate.  The chestnut blight in Strawberry Fields reveals itself in browning leaves and a paucity of nuts.  There is a heavy quiet today:  no jazz combo, no acrobats, no Colin the cowboy.

Carole, the photographer, told me Colin had been here earlier, but couldn’t stand the heat.  Her advice was to keep moving, which I did, but as I crested the hill I heard an amped guitar, then saw the man-bunned guitarist in my spot under the maple.  Returning to the fountain, I set up just beyond the perimeter, where the fountain crowd, such as it was, could hear and see me, while I stood in the shade.  After a few tunes, a man my age, perhaps contemplating his own retirement, gave me a buck.

A large group of T-shirted teens followed the leader across the sun-drenched plaza to the shaded path in front of me.  “Has this group got time for a hula today?”

“Not today,” he said, waving a red umbrella over his head, in a motion meant to rally the stragglers.  In the meantime, the kids had clogged the narrow path in front of me, so I launched into “Honolulu Eyes” to keep then entertained.  A few spontaneous hulas broke out, but there was to be no organized dancing to “The Hukilau Song.”  Having regained control of his tour, the leader turned and started to walk, his charges dutifully followed.  At the end of the line, a gangly boy gave me a dollar as he passed.

A mother-daughter duo came next.  Their hula was sedate, perfectly appropriate for the heat.

The bench facing the fountain was empty, and shaded, so I moved my gear to a corner, sat the solar-powered hula girls on the bench above my case, and continued my set.  Before long, a solidly-built 20-something man, in a baseball jersey sporting “STANTON/28,” gave me $2.

A 50-something woman took a video, then unfolded a fiver from a wad of bills and gave it to me.  “Have you got time for a hula today?”

“Too hot to hula,” she laughed.

The rotating Earth, with me on it, once again turned directly into the sun, so I pushed my gear to the opposite corner of the bench to finish my set.  The shade vanished here too, just about the time I finished.  My aloha shirt was soaked through; the sweat stain on my hat was 6 inches wide.  I counted out 5 singles and a fin, then headed home for a shower and nap.