(The Miller’s Apprentice Discusses Rumpelstiltskin)

I was apprenticed to a mill. Not to a wizard, mind you, nor even an alchemist. A mill.

We ground grain. That was the arrangement. Grain arrived, flour departed, and everybody remained employed.

Simple.

Understandable.

Reasonable.

But then one day somebody started tellin’ lies about the straw.

The Miller

Now my master was a decent enough man. He was a hard worker with a strong back. However, he did have a weak relationship with the truth.

The trouble started when he made the mistake that has launched countless disasters throughout history.

He attempted to impress somebody important. In this case, it was the king of all people.

The Claim

I was stackin’ sacks when I first heard it. The miller comes rushin’ in, pale as milk. Naturally, I asked him what was wrong. He said:

“I may have overstated your sister’s capabilities.”

Now, I didn’t know his daughter had a brother, but that wasn’t the important part. The important part was the next sentence.

“I told the king she can spin straw into gold.”

I stared at him for a long time. Then I said:

“Can she?”

He said: “No, she can’t, not really.”

Which, I felt, was information he should’ve considered before the conversation even took place.

The New Expectations

The next thing we know, the entire kingdom is discussin’ straw.

Not flour.

Not wheat.

Straw.

A product we had previously regarded as agricultural leftovers.

Suddenly everybody’s askin’:

“Why aren’t you makin’ gold?”

Because, sir, we are millers. Not sorcerers.

The Little Man

Now eventually the stories begin circulatin’. Stories about a strange little fellow with an odd name and questionable business practices.

Works nights.

Accepts unusual forms of payment.

Every workplace has one. The difference is that ours seemed to actually possess supernatural capabilities.

The Productivity Crisis

After the first room of straw became gold, everything changed.

I do mean everything.

Do you know what happens when management sees one impossible result?

It becomes the new standard. The king starts askin’:

“How much gold can be produced weekly?”

Weekly? Sire, yesterday we were makin’ flour.

The Meeting

There was a meetin’.

There’s always a meetin’.

A royal advisor stood up in front of us and said:

“We’re goin’ to have to think creatively.”

Now, whenever a supervisor says them words, somebody beneath him is about to suffer.

He continued:

“The princess has demonstrated extraordinary production potential.”

I raised my hand.

“Respectfully, what she’s demonstrated is access to one highly suspicious little man.”

My observation was not included in the official minutes.

A Matter of Process

What bothered me the most was the complete lack of documentation.

Nobody knew:

• where the gold came from
• how the process worked
• whether it could be repeated

Yet somehow everybody was comfortable restructurin’ the economy around it. I’ve seen barns managed more carefully.

The Child Situation

Now, eventually, there were agreements.

Promises.

Names.

Babies.

The details became more complicated by the day.

I stayed out of it because I’ve got a personal rule. When a negotiation includes magical beings and firstborn children…

Leave.

Immediately.

Aftermath

The little man disappeared.

The princess became queen, and the kingdom carried on.

And do you know what happened at the mill? We went right back to grindin’ grain. Because that’s what mills are for.

Not gold.

Grain.

Closing Statement

So, if there is a lesson here, I believe it’s this:

A single extraordinary employee can ruin expectations for an entire industry.

One minute you’re performin’ honest work. The next minute, management is askin’ why everyone isn’t turnin’ straw into precious metals. And the answer remains what it has always been:

Because that’s not the job.

And that, as best as I can figure, is how one magical productivity report nearly destroyed workplace morale across the whole kingdom.