“… She was wearing a giant, floppy, checkered hat, and some sort of body suit with a cape. And walking behind her was—drumroll please—a duck.”
– Josh Paxton (musician)
JP: It was the summer of 1994 and I had just moved to town. I knew nothing and no one. But I had figured out enough to get an OffBeat and find the music listings, and I decided to catch the band playing at Café Brasil. Now here’s how clueless I was: when I saw that the listing said the band started at 8, I figured that meant I should probably get there about 7. Did I mention, clueless?
So I got there about 7, and naturally the place was deserted except for me and the bartender… that is, until this odd-looking, elderly woman walked in. She was wearing a giant, floppy, checkered hat, and some sort of body suit with a cape. And walking behind her was—drumroll please—a duck.
She ignored me and climbed up onto a barstool with some effort, ordered a drink, and nursed it while the duck walked around and shat on the floor. Then she paid her tab and left. After she was gone I turned to the bartender as she wiped up the duck shit from the floor, and said, “Okay, is it just because I’m new in town, or was that a little strange?”
And the bartender looked up and, with a completely straight face, said something whose Zen-like wisdom I would come to understand soon enough. “That was strange,” she said. “She usually goes to the bar across the street.”
It wasn’t until a year or so later that I would learn about the legend of Ruthie the Duck Girl, and how lucky I would be considered to have had a drink next to (if not exactly with) her on my first night out in town.
