Mr. Ukulele

The cleome is having a second blooming, pastel pink and white explosions beneath the rose bushes.  The long-lasting asters thrive, while the horrible boneset, a weed in anybody’s book, has established a beachhead and begun its invasion.

It’s not nearly as nice a day as yesterday, though still warm.  When I get to the fountain, I find a woman in an encampment, including beach chairs and umbrella.  She has a hand-lettered sign, with the headline:  FAMILY DESTRUCTION, subheads REPEAL Title IV and ABOLISH CPS/DCF.  It went on to denounce “fascist family courts” and the foster care system.  There was a guitar case at her feet.

“What are you going to do with this?”  As if I didn’t know.

“I’m going to play it.”

I walked off to my maple and started my set.  Gray clouds swept the sky.  Fewer boats were on the lake; fewer people walked the paths.  For a full 30 minutes, the only money in my case — excepting my $2 seed money — was a Canadian penny that I missed yesterday.

Feeling aggrieved, I threw all my paraphernalia in my case and carried it back to the fountain.  The protest singer was seated behind a music stand, strumming her guitar.  I walked to the south side of the fountain, 180 degrees from her.

A crew in black tee shirts set up a photo shoot by the lake.  I asked a heavily tattooed man if they needed silence, because I intended to do my hula act nearby.  “No problem, we’ll be done soon.  Do your thing, man.”

Two young women sitting on the rim of the fountain near me gave me a dollar.  A passerby tossed in another.

Four-year-old Rilynn strayed from her parents.  “Have you got time for a hula today?”  The question was directed to her parents.  I pulled out my baby lei.  “This will fit just right.”  She started by dancing a graceful hula, but when she focused on my solar-powered hula girls, she began to imitate them, stiff-armed, and with a little hitch in her hips.

Three film students from Hawaii gave me a dollar and stopped to chat.  They didn’t know how to hula and had never heard of a hukilau.  “I thought every kid in Hawaii learned to hula in school.”  They looked at each other blankly.

My low-G string snapped, again, during “I Can’t Give You Anything But Love.”  I continued to play through to the end.  Without low-G, my tenor uke sounded like a soprano uke.

Speaking of sopranos, a large woman in black, costumed in fur and a floppy hat, set up 90 degrees from me, facing the arcade, and belted out a few arias at a very high decibel level.  She soon disappeared.

With 10 minutes left to play, I stood up with my newly strung, and tuned, uke.  Four teens in school uniform took pictures of themselves in every combination.  As they ran off, one of them gave me 50 cents, bringing the day’s take to $6.51.

October has become my favorite month.  A day like Wednesday holds the record for perfection, the temp, the sky, the crowds, the works.  Center stage was all mine.  As soon as I started, a small band of Argentinians stopped to hula.  It was a ragged dance by a fun-loving group.  In addition to “The Hukilau Song,” they danced to “My Little Grass Shack,” at the end of which I retrieved the leis before they asked for another song.  The leader, a polite 50-something man who spoke English, thanked me profusely and put a fiver in my case.

A family from Tennessee, mom, dad, junior and sis, slowed as they got close to me.  “Have you got time for a hula today?”  No, they did not, yet they didn’t move on.  I cajoled junior, “Do you know anybody here?  No?  Then what are you afraid of?”

Dad said, “Let ‘er rip.”  He took a lei and put it on.  “Come join me,” he said to his family, but instead they moved away, so he danced his hula alone, and did a fine job of it, returned the lei and pulled a single from his wallet.

A young man walked up to me and said, “You are really cool.  Keep it up.”  He was from Germany, a Jehovah’s Witness, although why he felt the need to mention that I don’t know.  He put a bright new quarter in my case.

A half-dozen or so Chinese tourists walked by.  One of them, an old lady, stopped in front of me and gave me the once-over.  Scowling, she gave me a dollar.  I asked her if she’d like to hula, but she didn’t seem to understand.

A young woman had been listening from the benches; I watched her toes tapping.  When I smiled at her, she smiled back.  Later, she walked up with $2 in her hand, and told me she was from Colombia.

A woman poured a purseful of coins into my case.  She was from Manchester (“right in the middle of the UK”).  A late teen with his parents gave me dollar, followed by a 20-something who’d been listening from the bench.

“Do you like ukulele music?” I asked him.

“Not really, but I like to support local musicians.”

More listeners, more dollars.

A woman approached and identified herself as a pediatric nurse at Children’s Hospital Los Angeles.  She wondered if I’d sing a song to her friend, Phyllis, who was celebrating her 30^th year of employment there.  I readily agreed, singing “Happy Anniversary to You,” for which I received a 10-spot.

A woman stepped forward from a family of Koreans.  I put a lei around her neck.  She danced while her family took pictures.  She may have put money in my case.  Money was coming my way so fast, I lost track of who gave what.

A man asked if I’d sing a song for his girlfriend with the lyrics, “Tony misses you.”  Adapting a simple chord pattern to simple lyrics, “Tony misses you, Tony misses you, you must believe it’s true that Tony misses you,” Tony was delighted.  He tossed a fiver in my case, then sat down on the bench and sent off the video.

My set ended after 90 minutes, with a pile of bills in my case, $29, plus another $2.54 in change.  I love October; it’s become my favorite month.