Under Grumpa's Hat

The pub had a reputation, and like most good reputations in Canada, it came with a story that grew a little every time it was told. This particular watering hole wasn’t famous for craft beer, live music, or wings that could ruin a marriage. No, its claim to fame was the bartender. According to legend, he was the strongest man for at least three postal codes in every direction.

To prove it, the pub had a standing challenge. No fine print. No lawyers. Just a handwritten sign taped crookedly to the bar fridge.

One thousand dollars. Cash.

The rules were simple. The bartender would take a fresh lemon and squeeze it with every ounce of strength God, genetics, and questionable life choices had given him. Once he was done, anyone brave or stupid enough could try to squeeze out one more drop. One single, lonely drop. If they succeeded, they walked out a grand richer. If not, they paid for their beer and their bruised ego.

Over the years, the lemon had defeated some impressive specimens of humanity. Weightlifters with necks thicker than fence posts. Farm boys who could casually lift hay bales while discussing the weather. Guys who said things like “I don’t usually do this” while very clearly usually doing exactly this. Every single one failed. The lemon always left the bar drier than a Saskatchewan joke told without context.

Then one slow afternoon, when the hockey game on TV was more commercial than action, the door creaked open.

In shuffled an old man who looked like life had gently but persistently sat on him. Thin. Pale. Slightly hunched. He wore a polyester suit that hadn’t been fashionable since Trudeau senior, and even then it was questionable. His glasses were scratched, his tie was crooked, and his shoes had seen things they could not forget.

He approached the bar quietly and cleared his throat like someone who apologizes to furniture.

“I’d like to take the bet,” he said.

The pub went still for half a second, then erupted. Laughter bounced off the walls. Someone snorted beer through their nose. The bartender raised an eyebrow, clearly amused but never one to turn down entertainment.

“Suit yourself,” he said.

He grabbed a lemon the size of a small fist and began squeezing. Veins popped. Muscles tightened. The lemon screamed internally. When he was done, it looked less like fruit and more like evidence. He slapped the shrivelled rind onto the bar and slid it toward the little man with a grin that said, nice try, pal.

The laughter faded into silence as the man picked up the lemon.

He didn’t grunt. He didn’t flex. He simply wrapped his fingers around it and applied pressure with the calm confidence of someone who fills out forms for a living.

Drip.

One drop hit the bar.

Then another.

Then a third.

You could hear a loonie hit the floor somewhere. The bartender’s smile vanished. The room stared in disbelief as the man gently set the lemon down, now somehow even drier, yet undeniably defeated.

Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter and handed over a stack of bills.

“I gotta ask,” he said, shaking his head. “What do you do? Logging? Construction? CrossFit?”

The man adjusted his glasses, smiled politely, and said, “I’m a retired collector for the Canada Revenue Agency.”