I turned into the park expecting to have another aloha-filled day, but was sorely challenged. A film crew for “Manhattan Love Story,” a new ABC sitcom, had occupied the north end of the plaza and filled it with wooden benches, phony hot dog stands, lights, electronics, booms, cartloads of cables, and all the appurtenances of a professional shoot, including at least 3 young crowd wranglers on my side of the fountain. At the moment I arrived, nothing seemed to be happening.

“When are you guys starting your shoot?” I asked a bearded man lounging in the sun.

“I don’t know.”

“Could you find out? I’ll be making a lot of noise here.”

“There’s no one to ask, they’re all at lunch.”

“So when is lunch over?”

“I don’t know.” In fact, although they were wired with headsets for ease of communications, neither he, nor his 2 colleagues, knew anything for the rest of the afternoon, so I set up on center stage and started my set. An apple-cheeked lady made the first, and only, donation of the day.

The cast and crew slowly drifted back and took their places around the fountain and on the wooden benches. A number of people limbered up to the sweet sound of my uke. All this activity drew large crowds in need of wrangling. Now armed with signs that asserted the production company’s perpetual right to everyone’s image, the youngsters formed a line to keep people from wandering into frame. I continued to play, encouraging people to dance the hula while they waited for the show to begin.

After 45 minutes, a harried man in full beard and open work shirt showed up and started directing people. Little by little, the wranglers expanded their perimeter past where I was playing.

“What are you doing, chasing away my audience?”

“You can’t stay here,” ordered a tall young girl in a turquoise sweatshirt. I suppressed my first few responses, worked to summon the aloha spirit. Before I could respond civilly, however, she ran off to stop some Italian bicyclists from riding through the set.

A 40-something man, looking very official, stopped to talk. He explained what was going on and asked if there was somewhere else I could play. “Yes,” I said, “I understand. Maybe you could give me a little tip?” indicating my case.

“What did you have in mind?”

“How about $20,” I said, naming the sum other film crews had given me to go away.

“We can do better than that,” he said. “Just wait here a few minutes while I get a W-9 for you to sign. In the meantime, go ahead and play. I like your music; I’m trying to convince them to put you in the scene.”

When the assistant director called “Action,” I put down my uke and watched as the actors wandered in front of the wooden benches, apparently randomly, while the boom-mounted camera swooped and dove to get the shot. This flash mob then aligned for an energetic dance, all mitout sound (MOS). At “cut,” they cheered and high-fived themselves before gathering to hear what the director had to say about their performance.

I took up my uke and doggedly resumed my requests for hula, in vain. The crowd was thick around me; where was that guy with my money?

After a second take, I asked the wranglers if they knew who that guy was who spoke to me.

“What guy?” I explained, and the girl in turquoise said, “We’re not paying you. Just get out of here.”

“No need to be unpleasant,” I managed to say, struggling to keep aloha in my heart.

After another take, I approached a young woman who appeared to be a little higher up in the pecking order. She heard me out, then said, “Ok, I’ll talk to the location manager right after the next take.”

It had been more than 30 minutes since I’d been promised some money, and I was starting to wonder if I’d been had. It was becoming increasingly difficult for me to stay calm, and I worried, knowing myself, that I might become loudly disruptive of the whole production. Finally, a young woman approached with a stack of W-9s. “Dave will be here in a minute,” she told me. “We need the form to prove we didn’t just spend the money on ourselves.”

As I filled out the form, Dave arrived and handed me a crisp 50. “His name is Dave,” I shouted to the wranglers. “Get in the loop.”

The young woman then asked if she could take a picture of me and my uke, additional documentation, I suspect, in support of the W-9. I shook hands with her and Dave, put my uke back in the case and exited the crowd. Feeling rather upset by the whole experience, despite the happy outcome, it occurred to me that ALOHA spelled backward is A-HOLA.