At the Imagine Mosaic, the guitarist asked the tourist, “Where are you from?”

“Finland.”

“I’m from Finland too,” said the scruffy young man, with blond ponytail and uneven teeth, whom I often saw bumming cigarettes from the guitarists. People resting on benches craned their necks to see who was talking, because they were all from Finland. Imagine.

It was hot. Sunbathers were spread out on blankets on the lawn to the south. Pedicab drivers cruised for fares. From the mall I heard the rhythmic clapping for the acrobats.

Over by the path, where the cowboy often played, was chameleon boy, surrounded by his handmade signage, straight from the high school science fair. There was twice the distance between us than Friday — and I do so like center stage — so I gave him a wave of Aloha and went into my act.

After 30 minutes, nothing. At 60 minutes, a man in a panama hat sprinkled change into my case. There were 3 pennies and a quarter. When I packed up 30 minutes later, I found a nickel and another penny under a couple of leis.

Meanwhile, chameleon boy was cleaning up. He had a pretty patter and played tricks on little kids and old ladies, having the animal pull off hats and hang upside down from a squeamish teen’s outstretched arm. He at once delighted and terrified. Parents watched their kids overcome their fears, they took pictures of the critter on Susie’s shoulder or Bud’s butt, and learned a little bit about the bathroom behavior of reptiles. More than one couple on the bench in the shade, who smiled at my lyrics, or so I thought, or tapped their feet to my music, or so I thought, after packing up their things walked over to see what all the hubbub was about instead of walking over to me with their money.

On the bright side, over the many years Mr. Ukulele has been crooning in the park, never has 90 minutes gone by without someone expressing their enjoyment somehow. Should that day come, as I know it must, I only hope it will not be at the claws of the chameleon.