On these beautiful August days, Bethesda Fountain can take on a circus atmosphere. The big bubble man waves his foamy netting and huge bubbles float up and over the heads of squealing children. Bubbles, like the ballerina – who was not here today – danced to the music from the arcade. Begging Buddhists snaked through the crowd, shoving prayer flags at people. Softly, from 2 shady corners around the fountain, came the calls, “cold water here,” “agua fria.” And now, ladies and gentlemen, appearing in the center ring, Mr. Ukulele.

A troop of 4-year-olds in blue tee shirts were being herded down the path to the fountain by 2 adults. “Has this group got time for a hula?”

I put 8 kids in leis, then had them trade off with 8 more for the second verse of “The Hukilau Song.” They were a day camp from Brooklyn. The leader, having rounded everyone up after the dance, gave me a 10-dollar bill, a sure sign of Brooklyn’s gentrification. As often as not, I get bupkis from the outer boroughs.

A half dozen girls from Uruguay danced the hula, followed by 2 adolescent sisters from Israel, each with a dollar in her hand. At some distance, a woman was catching it all on video. She walked off, then came back with a donation. A 20-something man with a camera leaned against a stone block at the end of the benches and listened. After a few songs, he walked over, dropped 2 singles, walked back and continued listening.

Off to my left a scruffy guy, shirt off, pant legs rolled to the knees, stepped into the waters of the fountain. I figured he was trolling for silver, but when I saw him again he was soaked from head to toe, as if from a shower. He stretched out in the sun to dry. Later, he pulled up in front of me on a bike, took out a money clip and peeled off a dollar.

A thin, tall woman with fire-red hair passed in front of me a few times, scoping me out. She finally came up to me and said, “I want to dance.” Her accent was Russo-Slavic. “But first I get someone.” She gave me a dollar, to reserve her dance, then walked off to the benches. She came back with a middle-age man, positioned him, gave him some last minute instructions about recording, positioned herself, then gave me a nod to begin. This was no hula; instead she waved her arms, leapt and landed in grotesque postures, all fingers and eyes. At the finale, she collapsed into a tangle of limbs. I title her interpretation: “Dracula Goes to the Hukilau.”

I left the park with $26 and change, and the satisfaction of having put on a good show.