Mr. Ukulele

With the temperature north of ninety degrees, I headed straight for the shade of the maple.  A cooling breeze blew off the water.  Not long after starting my set, a half dozen 4-5 year-olds, in bright orange tee shirts, walked by with two women who appeared to be more east side socialites than day camp counsellors.

“Have you got time for a hula today?”

“How about it, kids, have we got time?”  All but one kid was up for it.  I handed out leis, and draped a lei on the fence in case the one dissenter changed her mind.  For first time hula dancers the kids did great, although halfway through the second verse of “The Hukilau Song” their arms drooped and 2 of them barely moved at all.  Afterward, I collected the leis from the kids, and a fiver from one of the women.

Two 20-somethings walked by, stopped, and returned to toss 2 singles in my case.

Coming down the path from Bethesda Fountain was a crew of cameramen, sound technicians, 2 directors and a well-dressed woman with a clipboard.  In the center of this gaggle was a tall, bearded man in a sleeveless vest, carrying a guitar.  His name was Elias, I was told, a wrestler with the WWE.  Could I play a scene with him?  All I had to do was tell him that his music sucked, after which he would trash-talk me and tell the cameras where he was performing next.

Elias and I ad libbed through 3 takes, after which the woman with the clipboard donned a lei and danced the hula.  A large crowd gathered to watch, and between takes the directors studied the contents of my case, without adding anything to it.

After filming me, Elias and his entourage moved on to the rowboats and filmed on the lake.

Toward the end of my set, one of 2 girls walking by put a buck in my case, and during my final number, “Little Grass Shack,” an elderly woman holding a preteen boy by the hand, stopped to ask me where was the pond where they sailed boats.  “I used to live in Maui,” she offered, after I gave her directions.  “You?”

“No, although I’ve been there.”

“I really like your music,” she said, and she pulled out $2 dollars and handed it to the boy to give to me.

“Mahalo.”

I counted out $10.  The shade under the maple notwithstanding, it was hot, and the forecast for tomorrow was hotter still.  I hoisted my uke onto my back and turned for home just as a man in a red MAGA hat walked by.  I wondered if he felt the heat yet.

For the third day in a row, I went a-busking.  It was another hot one, although slightly less humid.  At the entrance to the park, a second blooming of stella d’oro has added yellow to the purple and pink palette behind the benches at 72nd St.  The guitarist at the Imagine Mosaic sang “Imagine.”

Although Colin told me he’d only be another 15 minutes, I went directly to the shade of the maple, and stayed there.  A few songs into my set, a tour guide leading about 25 people stopped near me.  “I’ve got an Elvis group here from England, can you play ‘Blue Hawaii’ for them?”

“I don’t know that one, but how about the Hawaiian Wedding Song?  That’s Elvis.”  I struggled through the first 8 bars, then found the tune and rocked through to the end:  G (I do love), A7 (you with), D7 (all my), G (heart).  The guide looked pleased; he flashed a thumbs-up and a conspiratorial grin as a few people tossed me dollars.  When he turned and started to lead the group away, a few more dollars flowed my way.

A photographer from Paris gave me a buck for picture.  Soon after another group from France came by.  We tried to get a hula going.  The leader hurried everyone along, but not before another $3 was added to the pile of singles in my case.

A 20-something couple passed by, each adding another dollar.  At the end of my set I pocketed $12.25, my best day of the week