The last brick building on the left side of Spruce, just before the street gives way to the industrial plaza to the south, was an old row home where sawmill workers lived before it was turned into a bar in 1953. The sign that hangs above the door is an etched fool of a reaper, dancing about with a bottle and supported by his scythe. In the otherwise blacked-out window, an old neon sign clearly spells out 'The Pourhouse', though that first U randomly flickers off and on.
Large wooden double doors lead into the relatively large and open space. They no longer squeak, though the weight of the doors can cause creaking in damp weather. The lower halves of the walls are wood-paneled, the upper painted a warm tone and hung with old black-and-white photographs of the mill the town in years past. A large bar, handcrafted of oak and filled with pockmarks and scratches from years of use, runs most of the room's length to the left of the entrance, a litany of liquor bottles visibly crowding the back. Speakers hung on home-crafted shelves hover above them, and hanging from the wall on either side are planks covered in chalkboard paint that detail the current brews. As soon as a keg kicks, it can be flipped to its replacement.
One side of the room is taken up by well-used high-top tables, their accompanying chairs on the wobbly side, and olive-green pleather booths supported by a half wall run down the middle of the floor. Exposed supports, some sporting fliers for events or local employment, extend to the beams that cross the high ceiling. The floors to which the pillars anchor have been done in a vintage copper acid concrete dye to allow quick cleaning for the many spilled drinks. Despite the care, one may find some spots a tad sticky.
The bar consistently smells heavily of smoke and old beer, the kind of smell that never quite gets out of your clothes. The music is notably always rock, punk, or alternative, and usually old enough to drink here.