On Hiroshima Day, it was only the pigeons : that cast a shadow over Pershing Square

It was Hiroshima Day. As good a way as any to spend that awful anniversary, it seemed to me, was in a peaceful park.

I made a date with Janet Marie Smith to have hot dogs in Pershing Square and hear the noon concert of Jazz on the Square.

Smith is executive director of the Pershing Square Management Assn., and is trying to attract more people to the park.

I took a minibus from The Times and walked from 7th Street up Olive to the square. A new steel skeleton was going up between Marcus’ restaurant and the Oviatt Building with its Romanesque clock tower. Men in hard hats were pouring concrete in the third floor and others were walking across steel girders without handrails on the unfinished sixth floor. Two or three on the lower floor leaned on a cable and looked down to the sidewalk, across the street. Whenever a good-looking young woman came along they would shout and whistle, and others would come out to join in. I’m afraid women’s lib has never got its message to the steel construction workers’ union.

The band was setting up under white canopies at the center of the square. At three corners of the park, hot dog vendors had opened up under red umbrellas. The fountains were shooting white plumes into the sky. The pools were clear and blue.

Pigeons, as usual, were standing on the helmeted heads of the two war statues. Flocks moved suddenly in unison, casting a fleeting shadow over the square.

People were gathering for the concert. Many appeared to be street people, but there were yuppies from the nearby office towers, too--women in smart suits and young men in button-down shirts and neckties. They bought hot dogs and sat on benches under the fig trees.

An aroma of hot Vienna sausage drifted over the park. I stopped at Fred’s Famous Vienna Hot Dogs, on the southwest corner, to look at the menu. Fred was hustling. He had set out white steel patio chairs and tables under the nearby fig trees. “You want a Vienna hot dog?” he said. “They’re delicious.”

“Later,” I promised.

At the southeast corner two men were setting up a pavilion of steel pipe and canvas and unloading framed art prints from a van. Nearby The Hot Dog Wagon was in business, offering kosher hog dogs for $1.50, jumbos $2.25.

The old black cannon was still aimed across 6th Street at what used to be Fowler’s bookstore, but now it was a Carl’s Jr.

Across 5th Street, near Grand, the old Philharmonic Auditorium lay in ruins--a pile of concrete rubble that reminded me of Hiroshima after the bomb. It was where we had seen “Show Boat” and “La Traviata” and many other shows and operas before the Music Center came along.

When Smith arrived she told me they were also going to tear down the Pussycat Theater, on Hill above 5th, and put in a McDonald’s. I don’t know whether fast food is better for our health than X-rated movies or not. But I hate to see the old landmarks go.

A young woman with short blond hair and sheathed in a long blue flowered dress took the microphone and said she was Libbie Jo Snyder and she was going to play the flute and sing.

She did some Thelonious Monk and Miles Davis, supported by keyboard, bass, percussion and drums. The music was vaguely familiar; but it seemed to owe something to Bach.

The crowd had grown to perhaps 300. They seemed to be caught up in the mood of the music. Libbie Jo Snyder held up a long brass instrument and said, “For those who don’t know, this is a base flute. It has a real nice, low, sexy sound. And I’m going to do a Billie Holiday song. ‘Baltimore Oriole.’ ”

Smith went to get us hot dogs and colas. “It’s kosher,” she said when she handed me my hot dog.

I was glad to hear that. It meant that I was keeping one kind of diet, anyway, though I might be stuffing myself with salt and fat.

I noticed that the park was clean. Trash baskets had been set out, and people were using them. Cleanliness is contagious.

A girl made up like a clown was flitting about like a bumblebee, passing out program leaflets. She gave one to a young Latino who was sitting under a tree with three books in his lap.

“Hi,” she said. “You still going to school?”

“Yes,” he said.

“What you want to be? An accountant? A banker?”

I didn’t hear what he wanted to be, but he wanted to be something, which was a start.

The band did “All Blues,” “Black Orpheus” and “Fever.”

I noticed that Googie’s was still doing business on the northwest corner, at 5th and Olive. It had been there as long as I could remember. It had outlasted the Philharmonic, it had outlasted the old Paramount Theater, and now it was going to outlast the Pussycat.

I think Janet Marie Smith is on the right track. If you want people to come to the park you have to give them a little food and a little music; something more than fountains and trees.

On the way back to the paper I saw a pickup truck with several boys in the bed. Each carried a hand-lettered sign.

“No more bombs.”

“No more Hiroshima.”

“Save the Future for Me.”

A nice day in the park ought to be everybody’s birthright.