I had my hat, so center stage was a possibility. Deciding I’d gotten enough sun this week, however, I headed instead to my spot in the shade. There was a guy there with a trolley full of gear. “Are you planning to play here?” I asked him.

“Yeah,” he said. He was a disheveled, balding man in his 40s or 50s, pale and not altogether clean.

“Cause this is my spot.”

“I don’t know you,” he glared at me.

“I don’t know you either, just saying, I’m here almost every day. I’ll go find somewhere else to play today.” This guy had way too much gear; he wouldn’t last. “You’re going to use an amp?”

“Yeah.”

“Cause if you are they’ll shut you down, and you could screw it up for the rest of us. Especially if you start rocking out or something.”

“No, man, I’m too old for that. I’m just out here because they told me at the hospital I need to get out and do something. They don’t want me hanging out inside all day. Hey, what’s your name?” he asked, taking out an electronic cigarette, sucking on it once and putting it back in his shirt pocket. “My name’s Heartstring.”

“Call me Mr. Ukulele.”

So back to center stage, in my hat. Three 20-something girls stopped to dance, but not the hula. They wanted to swing. “Only one rule here,” I said, “you have to wear a lei.” While one shot the video, the other two danced the swing to the hukilau. Triple step, triple step, rock step. They put on quite a show, through two verses and the big ending, A7 to D7 over and over before resolving to G. Then they walked off.

I had a second walk-off of another kind about 15 minutes later. A couple sat down on the stone bench directly in front of me to eat lunch. They seemed to like the music, applauding at the end of every number. The young woman laughed and gave me a thumbs-up at the rhyme, “in those hula Honolula eyes.” I was inspired to serve up “Give Me a Ukulele and a Ukulele Baby (and with a Little Ukin’ You Can Leave the Rest to Me,” just to see if I’d get the same reaction. Instead, they gathered their trash, waved an approving goodbye and left.

Somewhere during that performance, a woman walked by and waved her arms hula-style. “How about a hula today?”

“No, not today,” she said, adding, “You seem to be having a good time.”

As indeed I was. It was a $3 day. As I packed up, the breathy sound of an accordion wafted over the plaza, barely audible over the splashing fountain. A woman had set up in the shade at the start of the path. The busker scene, like the weather, has started to heat up.