I returned to the park on the last day of August, a humid day pushing 90 degrees. A gardener watered what remained at the entrance, still-blooming white aster, cherry pink begonia, annual pink vinca, purple angelonia, and a moon flower vine run amok. There were no roses, but their bright red growing tips were 8 feet high and rising. Bloomed-out cleome and phlox made a last ditch display, their delicate flowers shining in the sun like a bald man’s pate.

The Boyd family singers colonized the arcade; they were using a CD-player for accompaniment. The curséd cowboy also had recorded music playing, even when he wasn’t. The summer is coming to an end and anarchy rules again. The only one who seemed to be doing well was the bottled water man, selling agua fria for a dollar less than the hot dog men at the top of the stairs.

Under the maple tree, all was quiet. Bursts of people came by, followed by long stretches of solitude, when I could practice my new number, “My Baby Just Cares for Me,” and resurrect last year’s new number, “Down among the Sheltering Palms.” A passing 50-ish man, wearing a white panama hat like mine, put 76 cents in my case. Later, another man of similar age, with the same hat, gave me a dollar.

“Have you got time for a hula today?” Two teenagers were walking by. She had close-cropped black hair, black lipstick, and was dressed in what looked like a wedding dress that had been cut down to a sun-dress. He was a handsome fireplug in a black tee shirt. I figured them for New York City kids and was right. She was attending Hunter College, he was studying aviation at Vaughn College in Queens. She gave up her solo hula at about the time we were throwing nets into the sea at the hukilau, grabbed her partner and pushed him around until they settled into something like a waltz.

“Can we take a picture? You’re cool,” she told me, putting a buck in my case.

At $2.76, I figured it was as good a day as I’ve had in weeks. While singing my finale, “Little Grass Shack,” a couple of girls from New Jersey stopped to dance. They floundered at first, then fell into line with a synchronized hula, with a few Jersey-style flourishes thrown in. They contributed a dollar a piece, and I went home feeling as if I’d overachieved.