This is “A Matter of Minutes” from the 1985 revival of The Twilight Zone (first aired January 24, 1986), retold in fourteen panels in the house margin-doodle style. Based on Theodore Sturgeon's 1941 short story “Yesterday Was Monday,” with a teleplay by Rockne S. O'Bannon, it stars Adam Arkin and Karen Austin as Michael and June Wright — a couple who wake up one Tuesday and discover that time isn't something that happens. It's something that gets built. By hand. One minute at a time. And they're standing in a minute that isn't finished yet.
The drawings are the hook; the captions under each panel carry the story. Adolph Caesar, in one of his final roles, plays the Supervisor in yellow.
The whole episode in one frame Two people in pajamas, one street that isn't finished, and an entire workforce that would really prefer they hadn't seen any of this.
ACT I
11:37 and Holding
It starts the way half of all Twilight Zone episodes start: with an ordinary couple and one small thing that's wrong. The bedroom clock says 11:37. Michael's wristwatch says it's just past seven. And somewhere under the floorboards, something is going clank.
The Clocks Disagree Michael and June Wright wake to a paradox on the nightstand: the alarm clock insists it's 11:37, his wristwatch says it's barely past 7:00, and the whole house is rattling with clanks and bangs that no furnace ever made.Burglars?! Armed with a golf club and a still-plugged-in table lamp, the Wrights creep downstairs to confront what they assume is the world's noisiest burglary. The shadow at the bottom of the stairs is carrying a sofa, which is not standard burglar procedure.The Blue Movers The living room is swarming with faceless blue workmen — not stealing the furniture but replacing it, swapping every painting and rug and fern for its next-minute self, an inch further along. A foreman stamps the checklist: MINUTE 11:37, done.The Morning Under Construction Outside, the whole neighborhood is a job site: lawns unrolled like carpet, houses lowered into place, the paper frozen in mid-throw. Tuesday, 11:37 AM isn't happening — it's being installed.
ACT II
Behind the Scenes of Time
Downtown is worse. The crews aren't just building the scenery — they're building the events, staging a car accident that hasn't happened yet, glass shard by glass shard. And when the Wrights stumble past the edge of the set into the white nothing beyond, they finally meet management.
Pre-Staging the Fender Bender Blue crews crimp two sedans together, sprinkle broken glass from a bucket, and paint the skid marks on — assembling an 11:37 car accident before anyone has the chance to have it. Free will has a props department.The End of the Scenery Past the last alley, the world simply stops: buildings trail off into pencil sketch, the fire hydrant is half colored-in, and beyond that there is only white void. The Wrights have walked off the edge of the set.The Man in Yellow Enter the Supervisor (Adolph Caesar), yellow suit, gold pocket watch, infinite patience. The diagnosis is delivered like a shipping problem: the Wrights slipped out of their proper minute and got ahead of schedule — awake inside a minute the crew is still building.Time Is Built One Minute at a Time The Supervisor's lecture, illustrated: time is an endless train and every minute is its own boxcar — a complete world, built by the crew, used exactly once by the Now, then struck like a stage set while the next one goes up. Humanity rides forward oblivious, one car at a time.
ACT III
Catching the Now
There's a catch, because there's always a catch: civilians can't just be left wandering backstage, and the crew has butterfly nets. The Wrights' only way home is to hide until the present itself — the Now, a rolling wave of real time — comes roaring through 11:37, and jump aboard.
The Crew Gives Chase The Wrights run. The crew follows — with rope, ladders, whistles, and a butterfly net — through streets that are still mostly propped-up facades. One storefront goes down with a WHOMP. You cannot outrun maintenance, but you can briefly out-panic it.Two Adults in a Ticket Booth The hideout: a theater box office barely big enough for one, occupied by two. The marquee says it all — NOW SHOWING: 11:37 — while search parties sweep past and the street clock holds its breath.Here Comes the Now Then the rushing sound: the Now itself, a tidal wave of color, pedestrians, pigeons, and clock faces, surging down the grey unfinished street. Everything it touches comes alive. The Wrights crouch at the curb like sprinters. Jump on three.Welcome to 11:38 They make it. The street clock ticks over to 11:38, the world is loud and warm and ordinary again, and nobody around them will ever know it was assembled by hand sixty seconds ago. The pajamas do draw looks.
✦ THE NEXT MORNING ✦
Every stage crew, no matter how good, eventually forgets to strike one prop.
CODA
Property of Maintenance
The Blue Wrench Wednesday. Coffee, toast, normalcy — and one solid-blue wrench sitting on the kitchen table where no wrench should be. Proof it was all real, left behind by the crew that builds your every minute. Somewhere backstage, a supervisor checks his pocket watch and sighs: oops. A souvenir from the Twilight Zone.
