Mr. Ukulele

After my annual wellness visit with my GP on the east side, I entered the park south of the Metropolitan Museum at 11 am, about 90 minutes earlier than usual.  I followed the path south and ended up at the Alice in Wonderland Statue near the sailboat lake.  When all other locales are occupied, I sometimes try my luck busking here; I’ve been asked to leave by Conservancy workers more than once.  Across the road to the boathouse, past my maple, I found Bethesda Fountain free of other buskers.

Since last I played here, they’ve placed the water plants in the fountain.  The day was as beautiful as a day in June can be, warm air, cool breezes and happy people everywhere enjoying New York.  A little girl in her daddy’s arms came up to me with a dollar in her hand.  Another little kid with another dollar soon followed.

Four teens on a school trip from Colorado talked themselves into a hula.  One of the boys said he once danced the hula in Hawaii, so I moved him to the middle of the line and told the others to follow him, but it was the girl on the far end who, like “Honolulu Baby,” knew her stuff.  For the second verse of “The Hukilau Song,” they grabbed hands and did a wave, which pretty much followed my hula instructions: use your arms to simulate waves.  Each of them gave me money in bills and change.

Four 30-something women stopped and rummaged around in each other’s backpacks.  It often happens that I see people reach into their pockets or open their purses.  It’s a virtual certainty that it’s not to get money for me.  Instead, out come phones, mostly, water bottles, sunglasses, and change purses for coins to throw in the fountain.  But after the picture-taking and suntan lotion application, these most improbable women each gave me a dollar.

An Indian man and his wife came up to talk.  “You play very well,” said the wife, as the man gave me a dollar.  “And you sing very well,” he added.

Two 20-something women in hijab played around the fountain.  They struck funny poses for countless selfies.  “Have you got time for a hula today?” I asked.  Giggling “no” with their hands over their mouths, they continued taking pictures.  I engaged with some other people, but saw that one of the women had put a few singles in my case.

A boy and girl of about 5 sat around the fountain with their parents.  The boy came over to inspect the solar-powered hula girls.  “I’m Logan,” the boy said.  “And that’s my sister Lily.  I’m a minute older than her.”

“Hi, Lily, would you like to dance the hula?”

She was a slender child in pigtails and glasses.  “Not really,” she said.  “I’m nervous.”

“Give it a try, I’ll help you,” I said, slipping a lei around her neck.  Logan had already grabbed one.

“We’re going to a big party on the beach in Hawaii, called a hukilau,” I explained, then broke right into “The Hukilau Song.”

Mom and dad remained at a distance, cell phones at the ready.  The twins danced the hula, more or less.  After I’d collected the leis, they ran to their parents, got a dollar each from dad and ran back to give it to me.

Last were a group of preteen Texans who only wanted a picture with me.  I dressed them in leis for the photo.  Together they put over $5 in my case.

My daily total was $28.06.  I have no idea where it all came from.

Remember the bird’s nest in the crook of Daniel Webster’s right elbow?  There is another, in the palm of his left hand, hardly visible behind his thick bronze fingers.  The catalpas up the path are splendidly adorned in clusters of white flowers, with petals lightly stained with pollen, like a tablecloth after a tea party.

The Conservancy Event is over, but it takes another day or 2 to clean up.  I might have set up by the lake and taken my chances, except for the noise of the truck engines’ idling while volunteers loaded dirty linens and folding chairs.

Under the Norway maple, I started strumming, wondering, hardly 5 minutes into my 90-minute session, whether today might be the day I don’t make carfare.  There was a skinny 10-year-old sitting with his parents and sister on the outcrop behind me.  About 15 minutes in, he walked around the fence and gave me a dollar.  Another 15 minutes passed and a large group of high schoolers from California walked by.

“Has this group got time for a hula dance today?”

“Can’t stop, gotta catch a plane,” said the leader, but one young lady managed to find a dollar and put it in my case before being hustled along.

No need for concern, I thought, I was bound to get another tip in the next 45 minutes.  And I did:  2 women on bikes stopped to take pictures of the rowboats on the lake, a pretty tableau of sky and clouds reflected in the water, with the towers of the Majestic and the San Remo rising above the park’s green canopy.

A woman, a man, a woman, put singles in my case, then another large group of high schoolers came up the stairs from the east toward me.  “Does this group have time for a hula today?”

The leader hesitated.  “Anybody want to do the hula?” I addressed the kids, and of course they did.  I handed out all my leis and off we danced to “The Hukilau Song.”  I stopped at the second verse and had the kids pass the leis to the next troupe of dancers, one of whom was a 40-something buff, bearded teacher who hula’ed with exaggerated moves that made the kids roar.  While he was telling me they were from Grand Junction, Colorado, the kids put the leis back and layered singles, a lot of singles, in my case.

$14.51 is a good day, especially under the maple.