THE FINE PRINT

WICKED GRIM STORIES · EPISODE FOURTEEN

The Clock That Owed Forty Minutes
By Esi Noire

The clock was not broken.

That was what bothered Nia Lawson.

It was seventy years old, weighed nearly forty pounds, and had spent most of its life bolted to a factory wall in Mercer Falls, Ohio.

Its brass gears were worn.

Its wooden case was scratched.

Someone had carved the initials D.W. into the side.

But when Nia wound the mechanism and set the hands, the clock kept perfect time.

The trouble was not what it did.

The trouble was what it had recorded.

For decades, the employees of Mercer Gauge Works had insisted that the factory owed them forty minutes every day.

The company said the accusation was nonsense.

The union had investigated.

The state had received complaints.

The matter was closed in 1980.

And by 2026, most of the people who remembered the argument were dead.

Then Nia opened the back of the clock.

Inside, folded behind the mechanism, were two yellowed timecards.

Both belonged to her mother.

Both carried the same date.

Both recorded the same workday.

But one said she had worked eight hours.

The other said eight hours and forty minutes.

And somebody had written across the longer card:

DO NOT USE FOR PAYROLL.

---

Mercer Gauge Works opened in 1948.

It manufactured pressure gauges, industrial measuring instruments, and small mechanical components used in water systems, factories, and heating equipment.

The plant occupied six acres beside the railroad tracks.

Its brick smokestack could be seen from the highway.

Its shift whistle could be heard across most of Mercer Falls.

For thirty years, the factory was considered a good place to work.

The pay was steady.

The benefits were respectable.

And a person who stayed long enough could usually afford a house, a car, and an occasional vacation that did not involve sleeping on a relative’s sofa.

The company employed machinists, inspectors, assemblers, maintenance workers, packers, and clerical staff.

Many were Black families who had moved into the region during the postwar manufacturing boom.

Others had lived in Mercer Falls for generations.

Their children attended the same schools.

Their families worshipped in different churches.

And nearly everyone knew somebody who worked at the gauge plant.

When the company closed in 1994, the town lost more than three hundred jobs.

The building stood empty for years.

A storage company used part of it.

A roofing contractor rented the warehouse.

Then the property changed hands again.

By October 2026, the remaining equipment was being auctioned.

That was how Nia acquired the clock.

---

Nia was fifty-two and repaired antique clocks for a living.

She had learned the trade from her father, who believed that a person capable of understanding gears and springs had no excuse for being late.

Her workshop occupied a narrow storefront outside Dayton.

The front window displayed mantel clocks, wall clocks, and one enormous grandfather clock that had frightened three delivery drivers.

Nia loved old mechanisms.

They were honest in a way people often were not.

A gear either turned or it didn’t.

A spring either held tension or it failed.

And when something stopped working, the cause could usually be found by looking closely enough.

Her mother, Lydia Lawson, had worked at Mercer Gauge Works from 1973 until 1980.

She was seventy-five now.

She lived independently, attended church twice a week, and maintained strong opinions about how much salt belonged in vegetables.

She also refused to discuss the factory.

Whenever Nia asked why she had left, Lydia gave the same answer.

“They didn’t want me there anymore.”

“Why?”

“Because I knew how to count.”

Nia had always assumed that was one of her mother’s jokes.

Lydia was not particularly funny.

But she appreciated the occasional opportunity to make someone uncomfortable.

---

The auction catalog described the clock as:

VINTAGE INDUSTRIAL EMPLOYEE TIME RECORDER — CIRCA 1950s.

Nia paid forty-five dollars.

She considered it a bargain.

The auctioneer considered it evidence that people would purchase almost anything if it had survived long enough.

The clock arrived in her workshop on a rainy Tuesday.

Nia removed the wooden cover.

She cleaned the gears.

She replaced a worn spring.

Then she discovered the folded cards behind the mechanism.

They had been tucked into a narrow space between the mounting plate and the back panel.

One was stamped:

LYDIA LAWSON
OCTOBER 9, 1979

IN: 7:40 A.M.
OUT: 4:20 P.M.

The second carried the same name and date.

IN: 8:00 A.M.
OUT: 4:00 P.M.

Nia examined the cards beneath a magnifying lamp.

The ink was faded but legible.

The handwriting across the longer card was not her mother’s.

It was written in thick blue pencil.

DO NOT USE FOR PAYROLL.

Nia sat back.

Her mother had worked eight hours and forty minutes.

But the company had paid her for eight.

The difference was exactly forty minutes.

The same forty minutes Lydia had mentioned for years.

---

Nia telephoned her mother.

“Do you remember the time clocks at Mercer Gauge?”

There was silence.

Then Lydia said, “Which one?”

Nia looked at the cards.

“How many were there?”

“Two.”

“Why?”

“Because one told the company what it wanted to hear.”

“And the other?”

“That one told the truth.”

Nia smiled.

“Mom, I found some timecards.”

The line went quiet.

“Where?”

“Inside an old clock from the factory.”

“Whose cards?”

“Yours.”

Lydia did not speak.

Nia continued.

“They’re dated October 1979.”

Her mother exhaled.

“Lord.”

“Do you remember that day?”

“Of course.”

“What happened?”

Lydia paused.

“That’s the day I stopped coming in early.”

---

The factory’s official shift began at eight in the morning.

Employees were expected to be at their workstations when the whistle sounded.

But many jobs required preparation.

Machinists checked equipment.

Inspectors calibrated measuring instruments.

Assembly workers collected tools and materials.

Maintenance employees examined the machinery.

Cleaning crews prepared the production areas.

Some workers arrived twenty minutes early.

Others were instructed to remain twenty minutes after the shift to clean equipment and complete production records.

The company called this preparation and closing work.

The employees called it working.

The distinction became important when somebody asked to be paid.

Lydia had been an assembly inspector.

Her job was to examine pressure gauges for defects before they were packed and shipped.

She worked at a long table beneath fluorescent lights.

Each morning, she checked her instruments, organized her paperwork, and prepared the testing equipment.

Each afternoon, she cleaned the workstation and completed the day’s inspection records.

She arrived at 7:40.

She left at 4:20.

But her paycheck reflected eight hours.

“Why didn’t you complain?” Nia asked.

Lydia laughed.

“Who said I didn’t?”

---

The original factory building had been divided into three sections.

The front offices housed management and payroll.

The production floor occupied the center.

The rear entrance led to locker rooms, storage areas, and the maintenance shop.

Office employees used the front time clock.

Production employees used the rear clock.

The front clock recorded the official shift.

Eight to four.

The rear clock recorded actual arrival and departure times.

Seven-forty to four-twenty.

The company maintained that the additional time was voluntary.

Lydia disagreed.

“So why did everybody do it?” Nia asked.

“Because if you weren’t ready when the whistle blew, your supervisor wrote you up.”

“Did they actually discipline people?”

“Certainly.”

“For arriving at eight?”

“For not being ready at eight.”

Nia considered that.

“So the company expected you to prepare before the paid shift.”

“Exactly.”

“And clean up afterward.”

“Exactly.”

“Without paying you.”

“Now you’re catching on.”

---

Nia searched the local newspaper archives.

The dispute appeared in a short article dated November 1979.

MERCER GAUGE EMPLOYEES QUESTION TIMEKEEPING PRACTICES

Several production employees alleged that the company required unpaid preparation and closing work.

Management denied the accusation.

A company spokesman stated that employees were paid for all scheduled hours.

The article quoted the plant manager, Franklin Mercer.

“Any additional time spent on the premises is voluntary and does not constitute required work.”

Nia read the statement twice.

Then she found another article.

This one was dated January 1980.

TIMEKEEPING DISPUTE RESOLVED

The article stated that the company and union representatives had reached an understanding.

No further details were provided.

A third article, published two weeks later, announced that Lydia Lawson had been dismissed for violating company recordkeeping procedures.

Nia stared at the page.

Her mother had not simply left the factory.

She had been fired.

---

Lydia was sitting at her kitchen table when Nia arrived.

There was a pot of coffee.

A plate of toast.

And a look on her face that suggested she had been expecting this visit for forty-six years.

Nia placed copies of the newspaper articles on the table.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were fired?”

Lydia looked at them.

“Because you were six years old.”

“I’m fifty-two now.”

“Yes, and you’re still asking too many questions.”

“Mom.”

Lydia sighed.

“They said I took company records.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

Nia stopped.

“You did?”

“I copied the timecards.”

“Without permission?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because they kept telling us we were imagining the extra time.”

Nia looked at the newspaper.

“So you took proof.”

“I took copies.”

“How?”

Lydia smiled faintly.

“I worked in inspection. We had access to the copier.”

“Did anybody help you?”

“Of course.”

“Who?”

“People who were tired of working for free.”

---

Lydia explained that the complaint began with a woman named Ruthie Coleman.

Ruthie worked in the packing department.

She was thirty-eight, had three children, and was raising them after her husband’s death.

One afternoon, Ruthie asked her supervisor why the closing work was not included in her paid hours.

He told her that the extra time was part of being a responsible employee.

Ruthie asked whether responsibility came with a paycheck.

The supervisor did not appreciate the question.

Ruthie was written up for insubordination.

The following week, Lydia began collecting timecards.

She copied her own.

Then Ruthie’s.

Then several others.

Eventually, she had records for twenty-three employees.

Most showed the same pattern.

Early arrival.

Late departure.

Eight hours paid.

Lydia brought the copies to a union representative.

The union agreed to investigate.

Management objected.

And the argument spread through the plant.

“Did everybody support you?” Nia asked.

Lydia shook her head.

“Some did.”

“Who didn’t?”

“People who were afraid the company would close.”

“Was that possible?”

“Anything was possible. The economy was bad.”

Nia looked at her mother.

“Did you think about losing your job?”

“Every day.”

“Then why keep going?”

Lydia stirred her coffee.

“Because I was already losing forty minutes.”

---

The next clue came from a man named Dennis Walker.

He had been the plant’s maintenance supervisor.

He was eighty-four and lived in a retirement community near Springfield.

Nia found him through a former employee.

Dennis remembered the dispute.

He also remembered the clocks.

“I installed the rear one,” he said.

“Why did the company need two?”

“Different departments.”

“Why did they record different hours?”

Dennis leaned back.

“Because management wanted to know when the production workers were actually on site.”

“But payroll used the front clock.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because the official shift was eight to four.”

“Even though employees worked longer?”

Dennis looked uncomfortable.

“That was the argument.”

“Did you believe the extra time was voluntary?”

He hesitated.

“Some of it was.”

“Some?”

“Certain jobs required preparation.”

“Then it wasn’t voluntary.”

Dennis rubbed his forehead.

“Mrs. Lawson, I was a maintenance supervisor. I didn’t write payroll policy.”

“But you knew about it.”

“Yes.”

“Did you complain?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

He looked at her.

“Because I had a mortgage.”

---

Dennis showed Nia a photograph of the factory floor.

It was taken in 1978.

Workers stood beside rows of equipment.

Some smiled.

Others looked tired.

Lydia appeared near the center.

She wore a pale blouse and dark trousers.

Her hair was pulled back.

She was twenty-seven.

Nia studied her mother’s face.

She had always known Lydia as a woman who spoke with certainty.

The photograph showed someone younger.

Someone still learning how much certainty could cost.

Dennis pointed to a man standing near the back.

“That’s your father.”

Nia looked up.

“My father worked there?”

“Briefly. Maintenance department.”

Nia stared at the photograph.

Her father, Amos Lawson, stood beside a workbench.

He wore a dark work shirt.

His expression was serious.

Nia had known that Amos repaired industrial equipment.

But he had never mentioned working at Mercer Gauge.

He died in 2017.

For years, Nia had believed he met Lydia through mutual friends.

“How long did he work there?”

“About two years.”

“Did he know about the timekeeping dispute?”

Dennis looked at her.

“Your father helped maintain the clocks.”

---

Nia drove home with the photograph on the passenger seat.

Her father had taught her to repair clocks.

He had shown her how to clean gears, replace springs, and adjust worn mechanisms.

He had also taught her that time was the one thing nobody could give back once it was gone.

Now she wondered whether he had known that the factory was taking forty minutes from employees every day.

She telephoned her mother.

“Did Daddy know about the clocks?”

Lydia was quiet.

“Yes.”

“Did he help install them?”

“He helped maintain them.”

“Did he know they recorded different hours?”

“Of course.”

“Why didn’t he tell me?”

“Because he didn’t like talking about it.”

“Why?”

Lydia sighed.

“Because he was on the wrong side of that argument.”

---

Amos had worked in maintenance.

His supervisor instructed him to keep the rear time clock functioning.

The clock was used to monitor employee arrival and departure.

When the dispute began, management asked Amos whether the mechanism was accurate.

He confirmed that it was.

Then the company asked him to sign a statement saying the clock was not an official payroll device.

He signed.

Lydia was furious.

“He knew people were working those extra minutes,” she said.

“Did he lie?”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean?”

“The clock wasn’t used for payroll. That part was true.”

“But it recorded the work.”

“Yes.”

Nia looked at the photograph.

“Did Daddy think the company was right?”

“No.”

“Then why sign?”

“Because he thought if he refused, he’d lose his job.”

“Did he?”

“Eventually.”

“Why?”

“Because he married me.”

Nia stared at the telephone.

“What?”

Lydia laughed.

“Your father and I were already seeing each other. Management didn’t know.”

“Did they fire him because of you?”

“Not officially.”

“Then what happened?”

“He refused to testify against me.”

---

The union investigation continued through the winter.

The company maintained that employees were paid for all required work.

The union argued that the preparation and closing duties were part of the job.

The state labor office received complaints.

The dispute became complicated.

Some employees had been paid additional allowances.

Others had not.

Certain departments were permitted to complete preparation during paid hours.

Others were expected to arrive early.

Some supervisors enforced the rules strictly.

Others ignored them.

The factory had no consistent policy.

But the records showed that many employees were working more than eight hours.

Lydia’s copies became central to the investigation.

Management accused her of removing confidential records.

She admitted copying the cards.

The company dismissed her.

Amos was asked to confirm that she had taken the documents without authorization.

He refused.

He was transferred to a less desirable shift.

Six months later, he resigned.

“Did you ever forgive him for signing the first statement?” Nia asked.

Lydia considered.

“Eventually.”

“Why?”

“Because he told the truth about what the clock was used for. He just didn’t tell the whole truth about what the workers were doing.”

“That’s a small distinction.”

“It mattered to him.”

“Did it matter to you?”

Lydia looked toward the window.

“Not as much.”

---

Nia found the final records at the county historical society.

The factory’s personnel files had been donated after the company closed.

Most were incomplete.

Some had been damaged by water.

Others were missing.

But the timekeeping dispute occupied an entire box.

There were copies of employee complaints.

Union correspondence.

Payroll summaries.

And a proposed settlement.

Nia read it carefully.

The company had agreed to compensate twelve employees for certain unpaid preparation duties.

It also agreed to revise its timekeeping procedures.

But the settlement excluded temporary workers, several cleaning employees, and others whose duties were classified as voluntary.

Ruthie Coleman was not included.

Neither was Lydia.

Nia searched the remaining pages.

A handwritten note explained that Lydia had refused to withdraw her complaint unless the excluded employees were considered.

The union representative warned that continuing the dispute could jeopardize the settlement.

Lydia refused.

The final agreement was signed without her.

The company paid the twelve employees.

The broader complaint was closed.

And Lydia’s dismissal remained unchanged.

Nia sat back.

The company had not been entirely unwilling to pay.

The union had not been entirely unwilling to help.

But the solution had left some workers behind.

And the people who had pushed hardest for an accounting were not among those compensated.

---

At the bottom of the folder, Nia found a thin envelope.

It contained several duplicate timecards.

One belonged to Ruthie Coleman.

Another belonged to Lydia.

A third carried Amos Lawson’s name.

Attached was a routing slip dated March 1981.

It bore a faded stamp.

R.E.C. — SECOND COPY REQUESTED

Below it, someone had written:

Retain original punch records. Do not substitute payroll summaries.

There was no department name.

No address.

No explanation of the initials.

Nia examined the instruction.

Someone had wanted the original timecards preserved.

Not the official payroll records.

The actual punches.

She photographed the slip.

Then she turned to the final document.

It was a letter from Amos Lawson.

Dated April 1980.

Addressed to the union representative.

In it, Amos explained that the rear clock had been maintained in proper working order.

He confirmed that its recorded times were accurate.

He also stated that employees were expected to be ready for work before the official shift began.

And that some closing duties continued after the shift ended.

At the bottom, he wrote:

The clock did not create the extra time. It only recorded it.

Nia read the sentence twice.

Her father had eventually told the whole truth.

She had never known.

---

Ruthie Coleman died in 2009.

Her daughter, Denise, still lived in Mercer Falls.

Nia visited her the following week.

Denise was sixty-six and had retired from the county school system.

She remembered the dispute.

“My mother was angry for years.”

“About the money?”

“About the way they treated her.”

“Did she ever receive anything?”

“No.”

“Did she know some workers were paid?”

“Yes.”

“How did she feel?”

Denise laughed bitterly.

“How would you feel?”

Nia nodded.

Denise brought out an old photograph album.

Inside was a picture of Ruthie standing beside Lydia.

They wore work clothes.

Both were smiling.

The photograph had been taken at a picnic.

“My mother and yours were friends,” Denise said.

“I didn’t know that.”

“They used to talk on the telephone for hours.”

“About the factory?”

“Sometimes.”

“What else?”

“Children. Bills. Church. Everything.”

Denise turned the page.

“My mother said your mother was stubborn.”

“She still is.”

“She said Lydia would argue with a stop sign.”

Nia laughed.

“That sounds accurate.”

Then Denise became serious.

“My mother didn’t want to be remembered as somebody who complained.”

“What did she want?”

“To be remembered as somebody who worked.”

---

Nia returned to her workshop.

The clock sat on the workbench.

Its mechanism was clean.

Its gears moved smoothly.

The hands advanced with quiet precision.

She placed the two timecards beside it.

Seven-forty to four-twenty.

Eight to four.

The same day.

The same employee.

Two different versions of how much work counted.

Nia thought about the factory’s managers.

The union representatives.

The supervisors.

The employees who had accepted the settlement.

The workers who had been excluded.

Her father, who had tried to protect his job before finally speaking up.

And her mother, who had refused to accept an agreement that left other people behind.

None of them had possessed the whole story.

But each had carried part of it.

Nia realized that the mystery was not why the clocks recorded different hours.

The records explained that.

The mystery was why everyone had been willing to treat one set of hours as real and the other as irrelevant.

---

The historical society agreed to display the clock.

Nia donated it on the condition that the exhibit include the original timecards and the names of the employees who had challenged the policy.

She also asked that the settlement be described accurately.

The company had compensated some workers.

Not all.

The union had negotiated changes.

But not everyone benefited.

Lydia had copied records without permission.

The records were accurate.

Amos had initially supported management’s narrow explanation.

Later, he had supplied a fuller statement.

The exhibit did not describe any of them as saints.

Nia thought that was important.

People were complicated enough without being turned into monuments.

The display opened in February.

Its title was:

THE CLOCK THAT OWED FORTY MINUTES

The clock stood inside a glass case.

Beside it were the two timecards.

A small panel explained the difference between scheduled hours and required preparation work.

Another described the 1979 dispute.

The final panel listed the names of employees whose complaints appeared in the surviving records.

Lydia Lawson.

Ruthie Coleman.

And twenty-one others.

---

Lydia attended the opening.

She wore a dark blue suit and carried a handbag large enough to hold the personal belongings of a small family.

Denise Coleman came with her.

Several former employees attended.

So did their children and grandchildren.

They stood around the display, remembering the factory.

Some recalled the smell of machine oil.

Others remembered the shift whistle.

One man described the cafeteria’s terrible coffee.

Another insisted it had been excellent.

They argued about that for several minutes.

Then someone asked Lydia whether she had really been fired for copying timecards.

“Yes,” she said.

“Were you scared?”

“Of course.”

“Did you regret it?”

Lydia considered.

“Some days.”

The room became quiet.

She continued.

“I had a child. Bills. A house to help pay for. I wasn’t trying to become famous. I wanted the company to pay people for the work they were doing.”

A younger woman asked whether Lydia believed the dispute had been worth it.

Lydia looked at the clock.

“I don’t know how to measure that.”

Nia smiled.

For once, her mother had found a question she could not answer.

---

After the visitors left, Nia and Lydia remained beside the display.

Her mother studied the two timecards.

“I remember that day.”

“What happened?”

“I came in at eight.”

“Instead of seven-forty?”

“Yes.”

“Then what?”

“My supervisor asked why my station wasn’t ready.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him my shift had just started.”

Nia laughed.

“How did he take that?”

“Poorly.”

“What happened after work?”

“I left at four.”

“Without cleaning the station?”

“I cleaned it during the shift.”

“Did you get written up?”

“Yes.”

Lydia smiled faintly.

“That was the beginning of the end.”

Nia looked at the clock.

“Mom, why didn’t you tell me about all this?”

Lydia was quiet.

Then she said, “Because I didn’t want you growing up thinking your father was a coward.”

Nia turned toward her.

“He wasn’t.”

“He was afraid.”

“That doesn’t make him a coward.”

Lydia nodded slowly.

“No. I suppose it doesn’t.”

She looked at the copy of Amos’s letter.

“He did tell the truth in the end.”

“Yes.”

“I wish he’d done it sooner.”

“So do I.”

They stood together for a moment.

Then Lydia reached for Nia’s hand.

“Your father was a good man.”

“I know.”

“He made mistakes.”

“I know that too.”

Lydia smiled.

“Well, then you know more than I did at your age.”

---

The historical society closed at five.

Nia helped the curator turn off the lights.

The clock continued ticking inside its glass case.

It no longer punched timecards.

It no longer recorded arrivals and departures.

It simply kept time.

Nia stood before it.

For nearly half a century, the factory’s official records had insisted that the workday lasted eight hours.

The rear clock had recorded something different.

Forty minutes before and after the scheduled shift.

Forty minutes spent preparing equipment, checking instruments, cleaning workstations, and completing records.

Forty minutes that some employees were paid for.

And others were not.

The factory had closed.

The managers were gone.

The union agreement was history.

The money could not simply be recovered after all those years.

But the records remained.

And now the people who had worked those hours had names.

---

Outside, Lydia waited beside the car.

The evening air was cold.

Nia helped her mother into the passenger seat.

As she closed the door, Lydia said, “You know what your father would’ve said about that clock?”

“What?”

“He would’ve told you it was running fast.”

Nia laughed.

“It isn’t.”

“I know.”

“Then why would he say that?”

“Because he always liked to argue with you.”

Nia smiled.

She walked around the car and climbed behind the wheel.

Before starting the engine, she looked back at the historical society.

Through the window, she could see the clock.

Its hands moved steadily.

Accurately.

Indifferently.

It had never known what the factory paid.

It had never known who was afraid of losing a job.

It had never known which workers could afford to argue and which could not.

It had simply recorded the time.

And for forty-six years, people had argued about whether that time belonged to anyone.

Nia started the car.

Her mother adjusted the seat belt.

“Don’t drive too fast,” Lydia said.

“I won’t.”

“And don’t be late for dinner.”

Nia smiled.

“Mom, I repair clocks for a living.”

“Then you ought to know better.”

They drove away.

Behind them, the old clock continued ticking.

For the first time in decades, nobody was asking it to pretend that forty minutes had never happened.