Pilgrimage

The Sunday Times recently ran a story about Ruby's Bar. While I'm sure it was intended to be nothing more than a pleasant slice-of-life piece, a fluffy summertime snapshot, as with so many other such things in the Times, it came off as smug and condescending. Even the headline-true or not-smacked of snide: "Where Summer Glides Down Like a 9 A.M. Beer." You could almost hear the titters echoing around the Upper West Side.

Worst of all, for all the words spent trying to paint a portrait of Ruby's, the story never mentions that at the end of this season, it's all but certain that Ruby's will be no more-one of the dozen or so old Boardwalk establishments that the city will be razing to make way for a new shopping mall.

I don't remember the first time I stopped into Ruby's for a beer. In fact, I don't remember the first few visits all that well. Things were pretty hazy back then, so it just seemed like another place to grab a round. But there was one visit several years back when Morgan and I stopped in, and something clicked. I can't say what it was, exactly, but the scales fell from my eyes and I realized that we were sitting in The Perfect Bar.

It wasn't always exactly "cozy," and hardly ever "quiet," and the bathrooms were scary. But the bartenders were always pretty decent, the crowd always fluid and interesting. There was no attitude to get past, and there was a stand right there that sold corn dogs and hot dogs and sausages. Ruby's walls were covered with framed black and white photos of Coney's past, the floors were cement and the front was wide open to the Boardwalk and the breeze and the beach and the sea. On that one afternoon, it all came together, and stayed there.

For all the bars we'd been to over the years, all the strange things we've encountered, there were goings-on in Ruby's that could top everything. The horny, shirtless and completely insane little Russian man who was asking something from us we didn't care to imagine. The old couple dancing to the Eurythmics in front of the jukebox one night. Sammy the bartender's birthday party-which was much more out of hand than a 70th birthday party had a right to be. We shared a few stories and several drinks with King Neptune (aka Captain Bob) after the Polar Bears took their New Year's Day plunge a couple years ago. And there were a few things it might be best not to get into.

Some visits went better than others, granted (Ruby's is the only place where we've ever been cut off-albeit through no fault of our own), but that's true of anyplace. Ruby's was at least consistently unpredictable.

We chose what turned out to be the perfect day in late July to make what may well have been a last trip to Coney for a while, and likely the last visit to Ruby's ever. While the rest of the city sweltered, the slightly overcast sky and the brisk breeze off the water kept the beach, if not exactly cool, at least relatively mild.

As we were walking toward the Boardwalk after getting off the subway, I pointed out all the things that were going to be razed.

"That'll be gone," I said, pointing at the Go-Kart track, "and that'll be gone, too," gesturing across the way at the miniature golf course.

Finally Morgan stopped me. "This is a really depressing tour," she said. So I shut up and we headed across the sand toward the surf. There weren't many people out, but it was still early.

There's a Fatty Arbuckle/Buster Keaton comedy short from 1917 called simply Coney Island. The plot's a little baffling, but what matters is that the film not only contains rare footage of the old Mardis Gras parade and Luna Park before the fires; it also features Arbuckle and Keaton performing their wacky hijinx on several of the unbelievably deadly rides the park used to boast-rides that could never, ever exist today: the impossibly dangerous Steeplechase ride, for example, and another in which go karts were raced along a downhill track, into a wall.

Watching the film, one thing is obvious. For all my whining about developers killing off what's left of the spirit down there, it's clear that there's no way in hell it could ever be what it once was. Dick Zigun's done an admirable job these past two decades, but it's simply impossible.

Be that as it may, what's there now, ramshackle as it may seem in certain light, is all we have left. It's something to cling to in a city that has less and less to cling to with each passing month.

I was standing sometimes ankle deep, sometimes knee deep in the surf, occasionally giving my pantlegs one more futile roll to keep them dry. Then I cast another jealous eye out over the waves.

A few minutes later, Morgan emerged from the ocean once more with a broad smile on her face. It had been a while, and we both agreed that next time, I'd go in the water, too.

A few minutes later, we took our seats down the line at Ruby's wide black bar. A huge fan was blowing, Grand Funk was on the jukebox, the regulars had commandeered their end of the bar, and Willy was serving the drinks.

We got a first round-in the obligatory plastic cups-and relaxed a bit further. Everything was okay. Things might've been going to hell everyplace else in the world, but down there at that bar on the Boardwalk, it was okay. You could forget about everyplace else.

Which only made the end of the season seem that much more bleak.

I've written about Ruby's quite a few times over the years, but I know I'm by no means part of the Ruby's crowd. And that's fine, because they've always treated us decently.

The afternoon wore on, the jukebox was replaced by the radio, then both played simultaneously for a while. Morgan walked a few steps and came back with a grilled sweet sausage and a couple dogs. I'd glance at Willy, she'd flash two fingers, I'd flash them back, and the next round would appear. Outside and a few yards down the Boardwalk, the talker in front of the Shoot the Freak game was growing nasty in his increasing desperation to hustle up players ("Hey-how about you, huh? Yeah, you, porcupine!")

This time around, there were no weird encounters. No sex-crazed Russians, no men wearing robes and a fake beard. There was a brief, impromptu singalong, but that was about it, really. Just the music and the sea breeze and the beer.

By the time we left the bar and headed for the Wonder Wheel for a quick spin before heading home, we were already talking about coming back again before the summer was out. But if this was the last time we'll be able to sit at Ruby's for a few hours drinking out of plastic cups and watching the folks stroll down the Boardwalk, it will be about as fond a memory as I could've hoped for.