Posts Tagged ‘String of Pearls’

  1. September Busking

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    September 6, 2018 by admin

    It’s the first day of school in New York.  I haven’t been to the park in weeks.

     

    Those reliable begonias have started to droop and fade.  Michaelmas daisies have emerged to replace them.  A single dinner plate hibiscus, incongruously large, has popped up in the middle ground behind the benches.  “Run for Your Life,” sang the platoon guitarist at the Imagine Mosaic.  Along the path, the wood anemone has lost all its blossoms.  The combo by the lake plays “String of Pearls.”

     

    Uh oh.  There are tents and security personnel in chartreuse vests, a sure sign of fund-raising for the Central Park Conservancy.  More equipment is piled up at the fountain, and the arcade has been cordoned off.  “What a mess,” I said to the big bubble man.

     

    He wiped his brow.  “You gotta work for every dollar.”

     

    The CPC’s takeover ended at the steps from terrace to fountain.  Center stage was unoccupied.  “Let’s see what I can do.”

     

    “No, no, no,” said the big bubble man, whose name I once knew but forgot.  “The violin.”

     

    I looked where he pointed.  It wasn’t a violin, it was the erhu, and the erhu player, who only understood English when it suited him.

     

    It was cooler in the shade of the maple, but not much.  People walked by infrequently and no one wanted to hula in such heat.

     

    A couple danced some ballroom steps to “Fit as a Fiddle,” showing off what a few grand at Fred Astaire Studios can buy, and earning me a dollar.  Thirty minutes later, a well-dressed mother and daughter walked by, smiling at the lyrics to “I Wonder Where My Little Hula Girl Has Gone.”  They stopped about 20 yards away until the finale, “she’s no longer on the beach at Waikiki.”  Then mom returned with a dollar.

     

    A 30-something man tossed in 2 quarters.  By this time, I was wondering if I’d get to $2.70, my breakeven, equivalent to 2 senior subway fares.  Every time a woman reached into her purse, or a man patted for his wallet, I thought it was for me, only to have a map, a phone, or a tissue emerge.  With 10 minutes left in my set, a 9- or 10-year-old boy, walked by with a peppy, young care-giver.

     

    “Have you got time for a hula today?”

     

    “Sure we do, don’t we?” the care-giver said.

     

    The boy appeared to be autistic.  As I explained how to hula, she kept reminding him to look up at me.  While I played “The Hukilau Song,” he sometimes dropped his arms and lowered his head.  “Wake up,” she’d say, and he’d start to dance again.  After the dance, he wanted to know about my solar-powered hula girls.  When I’d answered all his questions, his care-giver gave me a dollar and led the boy away.

     

    “Aloha,” I called after him.

     

    “What does that mean?”

     

    “Hello, good-bye, love, peace.”

     

    “Those are all good things,” said the care-giver.

     

    “Aloha,” said the boy.

     

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