And I might also suggest, as we reach the entrance—my civic duty, this—that we give the door itself a moment’s scrutiny. The thing’s big, and heavy, but it swings open well enough on account of it’s kept well-greased. The door’s made out of oak, mainly, but there’s plenty of wrought iron to give it some extra strength. Which it needs, as the many deep gouges and gashes demonstrate. Been many the desperate deed been done at the entrance to The Trough. And, yes, those dark stains covering the door are blood. Along with some other stuff. Delicacy forbids precise description.
Inside! Into the holy chambers!
As soon as you step into The Trough, you find yourself in the taproom. The “main” taproom, I suppose I should say, since there’s any number of smaller ones scattered through the place. But, by hallowed tradition, it’s just called the taproom. (I don’t have much truck with the smaller ones, anyway. Those are for sissies.) You cast your eyes about, examining its cavernous interior. Immediately, you notice—
You can’t see a blessed thing. You’re blind as a bat.
Yes, the lighting is dim. Dim. That’s the way your proper Trough-men like it. Keeps the snoopy eyes of officialdom under a handicap, of course. But, what’s more important—your porkers don’t venture into The Trough too often, and when they do they come in such hordelike numbers that there’s always plenty of warning, anyway—it allows the Trough-man planted on his favorite stool that blessed moment wherein he can discern the figure of the new arrival before the new arrival’s eyes have had time to adjust to the gloom.
Important, that. A lifesaver, it’s been, often enough. Many’s the Trough-man who’s alive today, with sane spirit and functioning kneecaps, on account of how he had time to slip into the maze back of the taproom before the newly-arrived grudge holder, enforcer, bill collector, feudist, outraged (and-now-armed) victim, disgruntled husband, insensate father, insensate mother, insensate wife, insensate you-name-it, serial killer, homicidal maniac, gibbering lunatic or evangelist had time to spot him in the throng and nail him.
Soon enough, your eyes adjust, and now you can make out the full splendor of the vista.
The taproom’s huge, huge. A single room, basically, though the thick wooden pillars give the illusion of walls. The ceiling’s a bit on the low side, which allows the smoke to gather properly. On a busy day or night—and which aren’t?—the pipe and cigar smoke is so thick that you can’t really see the further corners of the room. Through a glass, darkly, your poets might say. If you squint, you can spot the multitude of little nooks, crannies, alcoves and corners which adorn the various sides of the room. (How many sides? I’m not sure. Sober, I’d say the taproom’s more or less hexagonal. Other times—more sides. Lots more.)
But fie on all that! Never bother with the nooks and alcoves, myself. I’m for the main floor, I am, along with all your other proper Trough-men stalwarts. There’s tables scattered all over the place, and plenty of chairs. Crowded, true—always is—but there’s usually a chair to be found somewhere.
Be a little careful walking, if you would. The floor’s so clean it would actually glisten, if there were any light worth talking about, and it can be slippery to walk on. Novices to The Trough are always surprised at how well scrubbed the floor is. If they survive the first month, they understand the reason for it. If they don’t, they’re the latest occasion for the mop.
First, though, it’s time for genuflection. Turn to your right, and worship—
The Bar Itself.
O, Eighth Wonder of the World!
The Bar Itself runs the entire length of one side of the taproom. You can’t usually see the end of it, on account of the smoke and the gloom. It just kind of fades away, like all your first-class religious mysteries. It’s wood, of course—none of your foppish hoity-toity stuff. Oak, mostly, although you can find almost any other kind of wood used to patch up the many busted sections.
Contemplating the Bar Itself is the closest I ever get to philosophy. Willingly, I mean.
I’m serious. All the fancy problems that philosophers waste their time fretting over can be solved just by studying the Bar Itself.
The distinction between Essence and Appearance, for instance, shows up in the way the Bar Itself actually dissolves into its many components. Each portion of the Bar Itself has its own distinct identity.
First and foremost, there’s the Old Bar. That’s the first twenty or so feet of it, right by the door. The Old Bar is actually an upturned watering trough which, legend has it, served as the original bar when the place first opened in the dim mists of ancient history. (Yeah, I know—that conflicts with the legend of the minor farm god. So? Legends conflict, it’s the nature of the beasts.)