It was one of those nice days you remember. One of the ones that are nice from the beginning, where you’re walking into a building and notice the “PULL” sign on the door in time to avoid pushing and crashing into the glass.

My youngest daughter and I both woke up in good moods (my wife being away on business and the eldest kid on a trip with school), ate, got dressed and I got her off to school in plenty of time with no friction or backtalk. The cats were both well-behaved. One did smell strongly of pee, but that’s his problem.

The weather is changing here. It had snowed again all night, and was still below freezing in the morning but I could tell it was about to change because as I drove to work through the frozen countryside a fog was rising from the creek along the freeway and the snow-covered fields and woods gave up their usual heaviness and dissolved mysteriously into the mist.

Then, just like that, my Doblo was on its roof in said snowy, foggy field.

Cindi What a Voice Lauper was still playing on the CD player. I turned it off in the middle of She-Bop (how much longer until Britney Spears covers that one? I can’t wait, seriously. It would be a great video. “Toxic” is alright, but the video, eh, except for the stewardess outfit. And, be honest, it’s a stewardess outfit, isn’t it, and not flight-attendant.)

I climbed out and stood in the snow counting my extremities. All there. At that moment, my cellphone alarm beeped, warning me that the battery was dead. I got it out of my pocket just in time to see the display fade to nothing. I did something I had always wanted to do: I ground the little fucker into the mud with the heel of my boot.

Feeling a little better, I began trudging through the snowy field. In the distance what looked like a house faded in and out of the fog.

Of course, before I reached the house I was hopelessly lost in the woods. I was dressed warmly, so was okay on that front. I just hoped I didn’t run into any wild boar. I had just passed a huge wallow near the stream, where I had seen the tracks of what must have been dozens that had torn up the half-muddy, half-frozen ground with their sharp hooves and razor-like tusks. I was wearing a suit, and really didn’t look forward to being chased through the woods by a herd of wild boars.

As I walked into the woods, the sounds of the freeway faded until all I could hear were my footsteps, my breathing and my heart pounding. I kept expecting horrible pains to shoot down my left arm. What a way to die, I thought, out in the middle of the woods somewhere, of a heart attack. They’d never find me. I would decompose and small animals, foxes and squirrels, always squirrels, would scatter my remains over ten acres. Carnivorous squirrels, seriously, wearing my watch and wedding ring.

Then: voices. At first I thought they were scraps of traffic sound from the road, but they had a conversational rhythm and as I got closer I could almost make out words. A man’s voice, high-pitched but clearly a man’s, and a woman’s.

They were standing beneath a raised hunter’s blind. The man, dressed in green with curious buckles on his shoes and a tall felt hat, was leaning against a feed-box the hunters set out for the deer. It was empty but for a bit of straw. The woman looked exactly like Monica Bellucci, was bare naked and stood beside a salt lick. There was a round, black cast-iron container roughly the size of a basketball on the ground between them. It was full of gold coins.

“Hi,” I said.

They had not heard me approach, clearly, judging from their reactions. The man, no taller than a child, wheeled around in shock. The woman was calmer, but also surprised.

“Feck, feck, feck,” said the man. “I suppose ye’ll be wanting the gold.”

The woman snorted derisively. “You leprechauns have such one-track minds.”

My head didn’t hurt. I felt my skull for bumps, but found none. That didn’t necessarily mean anything, but I still scoured my brain trying to remember what to do, and what to avoid, when you meet a leprechaun. Just in case this was really happening. Don’t break eye contact, I remembered.

“What’re you doing in Austria?” I asked.

He pointed at something behind me. “Look out! Could be wild boars about!”

But I held his gaze. “Nice try. Now answer my question.”

“Damn. It’s like this. Where there are Irish, leprechauns can be found. Specially around this time of year.” He shivered. “Fecking cold in Austria.”

“I’m not Irish,” I said.

“Yer part Irish, right? Ye play the tin whistle, right?” He turned to the woman, who showed no signs of discomfort at the cold, despite her nudity. “Yer man is more Irish than them modern jackeen gobshites in Dublin, workin’ for Microsoft and drinking white wine.”

This was not an opinion I happen to share, but that looked like at least fifty pounds of gold on the ground and I had just wrecked my car, so I didn’t want to press the point too strongly.

“Well, of course they don’t play the whistle, they’re all forced to play it in elementary school,” I said. “Crappy Generation-D whistles, out of tune and too much chiff.”

“All they listen to now is Robbie Fecking Williams,” he said. His eyes twinkled. “Although, I’ll let you in on a secret. He’s one of us, Robbie is.”

“He’s Irish?”

“He’s a leprechaun. Shite music, great success story. Yer man’s got more women than you can shake a stick at and a fecking mansion in Hollywood somewhere. Whereas I’m stuck here in the woods freezing with this argumentative banshee.”

“She looks like Monica Bellucci,” I said.

“She is Monica Bellucci,” he said.

“Shut yer gob,” she hissed at him, but it was too late.

“What do you want me to do, he’s obviously heard about the eye-contact thing, I have to give him honest answers.”

“He didn’t ask, he just made an observation. You’re supposed to split hairs more finely than a politician, you failure.”

Not knowing any banshee protocol, I concentrated on him and his gold. I cleared my throat. “About the gold,” I said.

“Well,” he started. “It’s obviously way too much to carry home right now, trudging them miles through the snow and mud and so on, so why don’t we bury it here and you come back for it when you have a wheelbarrow?”

I shook my head. “None of that. I can carry it.”

“Seriously, ye’ll throw out your back.”

“I’ll risk it.”

He was desperate. “Take her instead.”

She was fine-looking. But she was a banshee. I pointed this out. “What would I do with a banshee? I thought all they did was show up when someone dies.”

“All I can do is give you my gold. And fix your shoes. I see a sole is coming loose on your left boot there. She can grant you a wish.”

She hissed at him again. “You worthless culchie twat. You are so going to regret this, little man.” Then she turned to me and smiled sweetly.

“I’ll make a deal. Take her, leave me my gold, I’ll fix yer boot for free.”

“What sort of wish?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Up to you. It’s your wish. Just one, though. No wishing for more wishes.”

“So I could, like, wish for his gold?” I asked.

“Gah!” he groaned.

“Just kidding,” I said. I decided to keep it simple. I’ve read too many stories about people who make fancy wishes and then regret it. “I want a happy life,” I said.

“Done,” she said.

“Thanks,” I said. I walked back to my car. It was right-side up on the access road that ran parallel to the freeway. Without a single dent, not even the mysterious dent in the front fender it’s had for months since my wife borrowed it but was not her fault.

I turned the key and it started right up. I noticed the tank was full, the car clock was correct and not three minutes slow and the new Rasputina album was in the CD player. A cell phone rang and I found it on the passenger seat — some fancy-schmancy new cell phone with a built-in camera and a long-lasting battery. It was my boss telling me I had the day off while they installed a fancy new computer for me at work.

So I drove home. My in-laws were not there. I took out my key to unlock the front door but it was opened by a young woman who looked like Gwen Stefani would look if she were Chinese and had a big white stripe in her hair.

“Hi,” she said, perkily. “I’m Bing Crosby, your new au pair who also cooks and cleans. Would you like a massage?”

“Sounds okay,” I said. “Nice to meet you Bing… Wait a minute. Crosby?”

“It was an Irish wish, okay? You have a problem with that?”

“No, none at all.”

The cat walked past. He no longer smelled of pee.

I went into the kitchen to make a sandwich but one was already on the table. Roast beef. I opened the refrigerator to see if we had any pickles. There were three different kinds. It was also half full of cans of beer I hadn’t seen before. “What are these?” I asked.

“Magic beer,” she said. “It only makes you funny and charming, not drunk, and doesn’t give you a headache.”

“I think I’ll have one,” I said. She started to get me a glass but I shook my head. “I’ll just drink it straight out of the can if you don’t mind,” I said.

“That’s how I like my beer too,” she said. I took out another can and handed it to Bing. “Oh, before I forget,” she said, “your wife called and she’s coming home early. She said to get a vase ready because she’s bringing you tulips.”

“Mmm, tulips,” I said.

Bing reached over and clinked her beer can against mine. “Cheers,” she said.

“Cheers,” I said.