The first sign that something was wrong was the rainbow. It wasn’t the gentle, ethereal arc Kevin was used to. It was a sickly, jaundiced color, and it ended abruptly behind O’Reilly’s pub, not in a shimmering pot of gold, but in a puddle of what looked disappointingly like motor oil.

Kevin, a man whose only connection to his Irish heritage was a once-a-year green beer and a t-shirt that said “Kiss Me, I’m Desperate,” had taken the afternoon off. He’d found what he thought was a legit four-leaf clover on a phone app and was following its directions to a guaranteed “pot of gold.” He was not prepared for what he found.

Behind the pub, a tiny, furious mob was gathered. They were no taller than Kevin’s shin, each one clad in a tiny green waistcoat and a scowl that could curdle milk. They were holding up miniature signs, written in elegant, swirling cursive.

“NO SHORTCUTS, NO SHILLELAGHS”

“FAIR WAGES, NOT RAINBOW CAGES”

“GOLD IS OURS, NOT YOUR SOUVENIRS”

A particularly stout leprechaun with a beard like a burst of steel wool and a face the color of an angry tomato stood on an overturned beer crate, using a bottle cap for a megaphone.

“We will not be silenced!” he squeaked, his voice cracking with righteous fury. “For too long, we have toiled in the rainbow-calibration industry, only to have our hard-earned retirement funds pilfered by the greedy and the ginger!”

Kevin stepped forward, his foot crunching on a discarded, perfectly crafted miniature shoe. “Uh, excuse me? I was just… looking for the bathroom?”

The leprechaun on the crate glared at him. “The bathroom? A likely story! You’re another one of them, aren’t you? A ‘wisher’! Come to exploit our labor with your three-wish nonsense!”

A murmur ran through the crowd. One leprechaun in the back, who was meticulously polishing a gold coin, shouted, “The wishes were a limited-time promotional offer that expired in 1847! Read the fine print!”

The leader hopped off his crate and stomped over to Kevin. “Name’s Finnian. Shop steward, Leprechaun Union Local 7. And you, lummox, have just crossed our picket line.”

“Picket line?” Kevin stammered. “I thought you just… you know… hid gold.”

Finnian threw his tiny hands up in exasperation. “Hid gold? It’s a gig-economy job, you understand? No benefits, no weekends, no dental! And the risk! Do you have any idea what it’s like to live in constant fear of unreasonable pinching-related assaults every March 17th? It’s a nightmare! We’re demanding hazard pay!”

Another leprechaun, this one with a monocle and a far more sophisticated waistcoat, stepped forward. “And we demand an end to magical stereotyping,” he said with a huff. “I, for one, am a certified gold coin auditor. My colleague, Seamus, is an advanced moss gardener. We are not all cobbler-monks!”

“So… no gold?” Kevin asked, his dreams of paying off his student loans evaporating.

“Not for you, you vulture!” Finnian snapped. “We’re on strike until our demands are met. A four-day work week, comprehensive health insurance that covers pixie-dust-related injuries, and legally binding protection from being shoved into mason jars.”

Kevin looked at the angry little faces, the professional-quality signs, and the sheer, organized injustice of it all. He felt a strange sense of solidarity. “Look,” he said, kneeling down. “I’m a middle manager. I know all about pointless meetings and unreasonable demands. Maybe I can help? I can… mediate?”

Finnian eyed him suspiciously. “Mediate? What are your credentials?”

“I once settled a dispute in my office over the thermostat,” Kevin said proudly. “It was ugly. The factions were entrenched.”

After a tense, whispered huddle that involved a lot of pointing and angry beard-stroking, Finnian nodded. “Alright, mediator. You want to help? You can be our human liaison. You go to your people. You tell them the deal has changed. From now on, any gold acquired must be through a formal, union-approved bartering system. No more catching. No more ‘if I catch you’ nonsense.”

“And the wishes?” Kevin asked, the one last glimmer of magical hope in his heart.

Finnian let out a short, bitter laugh. “Buddy, the only thing you’re gonna wish for is a better 401k. Now scram. You’re blocking the sun for my moss garden.”

And just like that, Kevin was sent on his way, not with a pot of gold, but with a mission. He was now the sole negotiator for the Leprechaun Union Local 7, tasked with explaining to the world that St. Patrick’s Day was now a federally recognized labor dispute. He sighed, pulled out his phone, and started to type an email to HR. It was going to be a very long, very green, and very bureaucratic holiday.

*****

New Yesterdays can be found at: Books-A-Million, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon, as well as your favorite bookshops. The Audiobook is available from Libro.fm, as well as Amazon.