Timekeepers
A story based on “The Smoking Fire” by Giovanni Battista Piranesi
The modern world is under the impression that ingenuity and innovation have allowed individuals to keep track of time. Yet timepieces (clocks, timers, watches, etc.) are nothing more than an exploitation of labor. Cogs, chains, and levies aren’t the ones getting their hands dirty; the process of documenting and displaying the time of day, down to the minute, is not purely mechanical. A very small, almost undetectable, working class of people is at the mercy of the much larger hands of the capitalist class. It wasn’t always this way, though. The collective monitoring of time started off as a mutual agreement between the “little guys” and those in power. But this social contract between races gradually became a means in which the larger, more powerful human race controlled the smaller and more powerless. Tensions between the “small” and the “large” were allowed to grow for nearly 300 years, until one fateful day.
⃛
Lennon pries her eyes open, begrudgingly preparing to wake the rest of her body up. At six o’clock sharp, seven days a week, her dreams melt away and the morning light that illuminates her bedroom leaks through her eyelids. Her body cracks and creaks as she gradually begins to move more, shaking off the eight hours of sleep from the night before. With a soft groan, she drags her heavy legs across her bedding and touches her feet to the whining, hardwood floor beneath her. Although physically waking up comes naturally, peeling herself away from her bed every single morning, day after day, has yet to become anything other than excruciating. The only redeeming aspect of her early morning routine is that she is never jolted awake by any harsh tones, horns, songs, screaming “get up!” at her. She doesn’t use an alarm clock, people in her profession never do.
Lennon works inside one of the many clocks belonging to the capitalists. Capitalists are the physically larger humans of society. Lennon’s pet name for them is “Slow Walkers.” Not the most clever rebranding, nevertheless it was straight to the point. To someone of Lennon’s stature, often not much larger than a grape, Capitalists move egregiously slow. Lennon’s race of people (Timekeepers) have progressively gotten smaller over the years, as the Capitalists continue to grow. In turn, this makes Timekeepers the perfect individuals to put in charge of operating all of the Capitalists’ time pieces. Therefore, keeping track of time heavily depends on the manual labor of the much physically smaller working class.
Time is integral to the capitalist’s daily behaviors. In order to maintain a level of efficiency, the capitalist class called upon the working class to document the time of day, at all times of day. Beginning in 1656, the small working class was required to manually operate every timepiece belonging to the capitalists. This was an agreement made in secret. The work carried out by the tiny hands of the working class was advertised as an ingenious development in mechanical engineering. Clocks were, and still are, said to be autonomous. Meanwhile, hundreds of tiny people slaving away in “factories,” ensuring that every clock face displays the correct time.
⃛
Lennon slides into her gray, scratchy overalls that match her equally gray and equally scratchy boots and gloves. As long as she’s worked on this huge grandfather clock, the clock has always looked as if it were comprised of small, individual scratches. Old and abused.
“It’s an antique,” her large employers would say to guests touring the home.
Lennon would wretch when she heard how proud Slow Walkers sounded when they talked about a machine that doesn’t even operate autonomously. A sinister machine that has successfully enslaved an entire community of people, purely because of their size. What a perverse way to “maintain the stability of society” — another well worn Slow Walker-phrase Lennon would often overhear in passing.
“I don’t get paid for my contribution to society.”
“I am sleep-deprived.”
“Every aspect of my day constantly reminds me that my significance to those that are merely larger in size than me, is nonexistent or merely unknown,” Lennon quietly growls to herself.
It is not uncommon for her to become consumed with the exploitative manner in which the capitalists have employed her, and many others.
⃛
Lennon is miles away when her coworker, Willa, snaps her fingers directly in front of her face. Lennon is immediately ripped from here internal thoughts and back into reality.
“I’ve always been astonished at your ability to be completely asleep, even after you’ve gotten out of bed,” Willa teases.
Lennon shrugs.
Willa lets out a defeated sigh, gives Lennon a swift pat on the shoulder, “See you at the hands.”
⃛
Before Lennon can’t even start her grueling work, the entire clock starts to violently shake. Panic fills every station. Lennon nervously steps away from the second-hand mechanism she’s supposed to be operating. Everything is moving on its own. The chains. The ropes. The gears. Every inch of Lennon’s station is operating, without the guidance of her hands. She can see the hands rapidly moving backward. Around and around the clock face they circle, in the wrong direction.
Lennon is frozen, watching the hands continue to rapidly spin and feeling the shaking grow more violent. Panic swells all throughout the factory. Lennon’s heart is in her throat. She can feel her pulse behind her eyes. Every inch of her body is on pins and needles. She looks to Willa for guidance, only to see her friend has abandoned her post. Lennon is paralyzed.
Wails start to make their way up the lower levels of platforms; she can tell they are the cries that start deep in the belly, out of despair. Smoke begins to engulf each station. Lennon begins to choke on the thick, white air filling the entirely gray world inside the clock. The screams of her fellow Timekeepers grow louder. Her world is crumbling before her eyes.
What on Earth is happening? Who is doing this?
⃛
Cassius lets out a long sigh of relief. He is excited to get an extra hour of sleep tonight before he has to go back to work. Cassius has always hated the sight of his antique grandfather clock, always reminding him he is going to be late for his responsibilities. Not today; he is in charge today.
“Daylights Savings”, he whispered to himself. “What a wonderful new invention. It puts man back in charge of Time.”
