Harassing me about my smoking could be hazardous to your health
Remembering Red Hot Ruthie

It's a beautiful blustery morning in Ocean Beach; I'm outside what was once my favorite dive, the Arizona Cafe, the last port of call for serious dipsomaniacs, a place Bukowski would have loved. I glance up to the apartment, and for a moment can still see Ruthie's 'lovelies' on the clothing line, old fashioned bras, corsets, drawers and sexy unmentionables dancing wildly -- a burlesque caricature of Frederick's of Hollywood.
These weren't Ruth's actual undies, just props she'd found in thrift stores to complete the gag.



To celebrate her 18th birthday, Ruth left her her home in Hoboken, New Jersey for New York and decided to stay. She landed a job bartending at the famous Jack Dempsey's Cocktail lounge on Broadway, just across from Madison Square Garden. In those days this was New York's de facto Red Light District, tinkers, tailors, soldiers, sailors, peep shows and dive bars.
After four years, Ruth her love affair with the glitter of New York faded. She wanted to see California, especially San Diego. She had heard it was a big navy town. She had a liking for men in the service. Ruth stepped off the bus in Ocean Beach. It was 1960, she was a young woman of 22.




* * *
I turn and walk to Newport Avenue, imagining what this old-fashioned main street was like when Ruth arrived in OB in 1960. A Norman Rockwell painting comes to mind; a sunny little place, friendly merchants greeting locals as they stroll by. Across the street is a 99-cent discount store. This was the Kraft Drug Store and Malt Shop. I wave to old Fred Kraft standing outside in his white apron smoking a cigarette.
On my left is Starbucks, yes; a Starbucks in OB, there's a touch of irony for you. OBecians soon formed a grassroots effort to block this corporate giant after someone got wind that they had rented the property.
I still have a bumper stickers on my car "No Corporate Whores On O.B. Shores." This building used to be the local bank, the type of place that mortgages and loans were given with a handshake and smile. Just a minute, I can hear George Bailey inside . . . Now, hold on, Mr. Potter. You're right when you say my father was no businessman. I know that. Why he ever started this cheap, penny-ante Building and Loan, I'll never know. But neither you nor anyone else can say anything against his character, because his whole life was - why, in the twenty-five years since he and Uncle Billy started this thing, he never once thought



of himself. Isn't that right, Uncle Billy? He didn't save enough money to send Harry to school, let alone me. But he did help a few people get out of your slums, Mr. Potter, and what's wrong with that? Why - here, you're all businessmen here. Doesn't it make them better citizens? Doesn't it make them better customers? You - you said - what'd you say a minute ago? They had to wait and save their money before they even ought to think of a decent home. Wait? Wait for what? Until their children grow up and leave them? Until they're so old and broken down that they... Do you know how long it takes a workingman to save five thousand dollars? Just remember this, Mr. Potter, that this rabble you're talking about... they do most of the working and paying and living and dying in this community. Well, is it too much to have them work and pay and live and die in a couple of decent rooms and a bath? Anyway, my father didn't think so. People were human beings to him. But to you, a warped, frustrated old man, they're cattle. Well, in my book he died a much richer man than you'll ever be.
Further up the street, passing what was once a florist, a bakery, a shoe shop, the Cornet dime store. Antique shops have replaced a lot of these places, so much so that Newport Avenue is now often referred to as Antique Alley.
Wings, an east coast souvenir shop occupies the space where the Strand Theater once was. A wonderful old building, many locals probably saw their first movie here, 25 cents to get in and 6 cents for a pack of Milk Duds. The marquee is still there, sadly no longer advertising the upcoming matinees or Midnight specials.



I cross over to the Pacific Shores, a neighborhood bar. The outside of the place is classic 50s kitsch, like an abstract expressionistic piece by Pollock. I love this place, a bar that still embodies the sounds and smells of the 1940s. It's subtly lit, and murals of buxom mermaids that glow under the black light, a venerable bar to enjoy a brief respite from the world. It was here in 1994 that I first met Ruth. I was working at The Newport Bar and Grill just two doors down and I would pop into "Pac" Shores to wind down after my shift. I'd order a cosmopolitan, sit and nurse it while watching Ruth, the consummate barmaid, dispensing drinks and advice to all that entered. She didn't suffer fools or amateurs gladly, the young neophytes would breeze in and try to order 'cement mixers, slippery nipples, chocolate covered grasshoppers or Mexican glow worms. Ruth would roll her eyes . . . "can you believe these assholes?" Picking up a Pall Mall cigarette, she would walk to the exit and say, "I'm on a break."
Ruth reminded me of redheaded Kitty Russell, owner of the Long Branch Saloon in the tv show Gunsmoke; an idiosyncratic dress sense, dark red hair, gravely voice and a wicked laugh. Her tough exterior would belie her heart of gold. Her hazel eyes would penetrate your soul.
She was not afraid of anyone; there was the time that two bikers were sitting in a booth drinking bottles of Budweiser. One of them kept falling asleep on the table. Ruth would holler from behind the bar, "Hey you, this ain't the right place to be sleeping, if you wanna sleep, you can get out right now." The next time his head fell on the table Ruth was over like a shot, snatched the beer bottles, and firmly told them to leave. These guys were huge, but left quickly, without a word. She commanded respect, simple as that.
There are only a hand full of people in the bar at this early hour, couple of tourists and a few old regulars. In memory of Ruth, I put a few tunes on the jukebox. Ruth loved Billy Joel and Johnny Cash. Karin, a young attractive girl is behind the bar; she and Ruth were very good friends. For the next hour Karin shares some of her fond memories.



"I made it a point to go by during Ruthie's shifts and say hello. I worked Sunday's at the restaurant, so I would always stop in for one after my shift. Ruthie got to know me better after a while and I got to know her. I would sit quietly and wait for my drink; she would make her way over to me with a 'Hi. What'll it be?'"



Once I came in and Ruthie walked over with a gift bag for me. I was left speechless and touched. There are so many people in life; but she remembered my birthday. As I sat there holding my treasure, I realized that I had somehow made it into a select circle of Ruthie's friends.
Over the course of the next months I hung out a little longer after my shifts. I Had a few more drinks, got to know the staff a little better and enjoyed getting to know Ruthie. She was always good to give an honest opinion; to tell you about the time she got into a fight; tell you to 'stay away from them assholes' stating, 'they're not worth it.'
Mostly it was her sense of humor. Every time she laughed at something I would start smiling. My last shift with Ruthie was New Year's day 2007. Ruthie went into the hospital the following Sunday. I had a business trip in New York and later that week I called Ruthie from 116th and Broadway, to report on the weather in New York and to see if she was feeling okay and going to work that Sunday. She told me that she was still sick and the doctors were going to be doing some tests later that week. As we talked I walked down Broadway describing the sights and smells in detail. She would hear something and ask me, "What was that." and I would report. I gave her the update on what was going on while she was in the hospital. The next thing I knew I was at 46th Street near Times Square. She could hear all the sounds of the city. I knew that she lived in New York, but didn't find out until she had passed away that I was walking through the neighborhood she grew up in. When she left home that was where her first apartment was, and I can only imagine that she had made that walk many times.
Ruthie was more than a bartender. She was my friend and a piece of history from a time that has been forgotten.




A couple of gin & tonics later, I step back into the sunshine and begin to head down towards the pier, stopping for a moment at The Black, one of the last authentic head shops from the 60s. Can't resist having a little browse, I walk in, the scent of patchouli drifts through the air. THE Place is crammed full of counterculture books, cards, clothing, roach clips, glass pipes, black light posters . . . I love this place.
I Laugh to myself as I read the numerous irreverent bumper stickers on sale. Reminds me of Ruth's old blue pick up truck. She had so many stickers and slogans plastered all over it. My favorite was the one that read "Harassing me about my smoking could be hazardous to your health".
Just as I leave, a vintage poster for The Del Mar Races catches my eye. Ruth loved playing the horses, had her favorite numbers, 2-5-7, and had a knack of being very successful with the Trifecta. She'd always play picking the first two sure shots and follow with a long shot.
When Ruth's old pick-up truck was on its last legs, she wondered how she would replace it. She went to the track and her numbers came in. She won well over two thousand dollars, enough for a down payment on a new truck.
Ruth never let the grass grown beneath her feet, and took many road trips. She'd always take her cat, Panda with her.
She often went up to Idyllwild, a small mountain town just an hour or so north of San Diego overlooking Palm Springs. She loved the peace and serenity of the mountains. Reno was also a place she'd like to visit, much preferring over the hustle and bustle of Vegas.
A favorite story of hers is the one when she left her last of three husbands, Frank Freeman in the desert. They were on their way to Reno and Frank wanted to stop and stay the night at a motel that was along the way. Ruthie was looking forwards to having a flutter, didn't want to waste time. After a night in a motel, she got up early and simply left him there. She says," He had the hotel staff give him a ride to the nearest town and when he got back to town that was the end of him. He was all bent out of shape. Now, how can he say I left him in the desert? I left him in a fully air-conditioned motel room, with his checkbook....but I guess that wasn't good enough for him....HA!" She continued to say "All that mother f---er (he) wanted to do was drink and I was going to Reno....so I went."




I take a slight detour down Del Monte Street. In 1964 Ruth was living in an apartment on this street and pregnant with her son, Kevin. On Good Friday, March 27 of that year, a great earthquake struck Prince William Sound in Alaska. Policemen were roaming the streets of Ocean Beach with bullhorns announcing the possible threat of a Tsunami, and for everyone to evacuate.
Ruth heard the commotion, threw open her window and yelled, "I'm pregnant, I live on the second floor and I can swim, I'm not going anywhere". It took far more than the threat of a huge wave to unnerve Ruth.
Some good six to eight footers are breaking under the pier sending sea spray everywhere. I love to walk on the pier on days like this. You can feel the power of the ocean as it reverberates through the concrete foundation. The Pier was built in 1966 and is the second-longest pier on the West Coast.



It was around this time that OB was blossoming into a bastion of counterculture. Hippies, Beatniks, Peaceniks, Kooks, and Bikers were gravitating to OB. Rockwell move over, Warhol was moving in.
Not far from home, I wander into The Tilted Stick, a small sports bar on the corner of Voltaire & Bacon. Numerous games are blaring on the TV, the jukebox blasts out a song by Metallica. I order a pint of Yellowtail and a Philly. Ruth got one of her first jobs here back in 1963. It was then called the Brown Bottle, a cozy and dark tavern with a beautiful mahogany bar that curved around the place. The patrons and coworkers loved Ruth and her red hair. It was he that she acquired her moniker, 'Red Hot Ruthie'. The name stuck.
Wander back home to freshen up, there's a memorial for Ruth at the Masonic Temple on Sunset Cliffs tonight at 6pm.
What a great turnout. friends and patrons from the bars she worked are here. The staff from Pacific Shores has set up a bar and are already serving cocktails. A wonderful spread has been provided; sushi, sandwiches, fruit bowls, crackers and cake. Aaron, Heather, Kathy O and numerous others approach the podium and share anecdotes on Ruth and her life. Everyone is laughing.

Ruth's passed away on March 11, 2007, just a few months after the Arizona Cafe had closed its doors for the final time. Ocean Beach lost a local icon as well as a landmark bar. The world is changing dramatically, and unsurprisingly, so is Ocean Beach. This wonderful small town in a big city is an endangered species. As the cliché goes, you don’t know what you’ve got until you’ve lost it. Is this the beginning of the end of OB? Or are we already in Pottersville?
– Trevor Watson

Clarence: Strange, isn't it? Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?
- Trevor Watson