With clouds covering the sun, the day started out cool and windy. The heads of all the tulips were blown away, leaving naked stems blowing in the breeze, like masts of a hundred ships in harbor. The guitarist was singing \u201cLet It Be\u201d at the mosaic. I barreled through the crowd, wishing I\u2019d worn a jacket over my rayon aloha shirt. At the fountain, the azaleas had burst forth in thick blooms of white, pink and fuchsia, while Meta huddled against the cold under her shawl on her bench.<\/p>\n
\u201cI can\u2019t take this much longer,\u201d she said. \u201cWhat time is it?\u201d It was not even noon. \u201cOh, maybe another half hour, at most.\u201d<\/p>\n
I set up my case under the maple, but spent my busking time farther along the path, in the sun. A young man dropped 38 cents early on, and a guy walking by added a dollar. Three girls from Columbia Prep danced a fine hula, and a man painstakingly took a picture, none of whom thought to contribute. The doo wop group was at it again; I could see crowds form closer to the Boathouse. With 45 minutes left in my set, I threw everything back in my case and carried it back to the fountain.<\/p>\n
Meta was packing up to leave, so I stepped out into the sun, set up again and played center stage for the duration. \u201cHere\u2019s how I spent my winter,\u201d I told her, breaking out into \u201cMy Baby Just Cares for Me,\u201d an Eddie Cantor hit from 1930.<\/p>\n
A mob of kids from IS 318 in Brooklyn had time for a hula. Their teacher reached into her pocket \u2013 not for the first time, I suspect — and found $2 for me.<\/p>\n
A familiar face stepped forward to shake my hand. \u201cI listen to you all the time and never gave you anything.\u201d The man, about my age, remedied that with a buck. Two men, not at all familiar but also about my age, stopped to chat. \u201cYou\u2019re still here,\u201d one said, \u201cand singing out as well as ever. See this guy,\u201d he turned to his friend, \u201cI came to New York 6 years ago and he was standing right here with that ukulele. How about a song for my friend?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHere\u2019s one written by Dean Martin, performed by Arthur Godfrey.\u201d I launched into \u201cMaking Love Ukulele Style.\u201d They heard me through, shook my hand and walked off.<\/p>\n
Although the clouds had thinned and the sun shone through finally to warm the day, the wind still blew in cold gusts. At one point, my money blew out of my case; at another, a lei ended up in the fountain. A young bearded fellow who had been sitting along the edge of the fountain with his dog pulled it from the drink. He laid it out on the stone seat to dry. \u201cDo you do parties?\u201d he asked. I told him I’d done a kid’s birthday party at an east side pizzeria once. I’d charged $25 for 30 minutes, but the father gave me $45, saying I was a hell of lot cheaper than a clown.<\/p>\n
“This would be a baby shower,” he said, “on Long Island.”<\/p>\n
I gave him my card and told him to let me know what he had in mind. He gave me a dollar and said he would.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"