The Highlights Department

Marvin had the best job anywhere.

He arrived to the office on time and sat down at his desk. His eyes glanced over at his tasking board. The names of clients continued to grow. Someone over night had brought in another white board on wheels to add more names because he had run out of room on his original board. Marvin was behind on his monthly quota, way behind, but he didn’t know how to work any faster. His job was art. The stakes were final.

Besides, he had as long as he wanted to finish the list. He could finish each name at any time and it would be right on time. Even if it took him a million years to get to a name, the final product would be delivered to its customer right at the moment it was requested and the name first appeared on his board.  Aside from the candy, one of the best perks of working in heaven.

Marvin worked in the Highlights Division.  A relatively new department by heaven standards, the Highlights Department mission was simple – review a life and capture the highlights of it for a three minute video played at the time of death. Set to music, of course.

Marvin grabbed an order request off the top of the pile. The requests came in simple manila folders with a client number written on the label.

#102937656

Inside, there wasn’t a lot of information. Name. Date of birth.

Melissa Park. Born 1953.

Heart rate at moment of passing.

87.

Calm. Good, thought Marvin. A calm heart rate was most likely someone who passed at peace with their life.  An indicator they had lived a full life with few lasting regrets. It made for a much better video. More happy choices to pick in the editing room.

Of course, a heart rate could lie. It was up to Marvin to review the tapes and make the judgment call on the person’s life. It was up to Marvin to craft the three minute highlight video this person most needed to see when they died. Sometimes a person needed to remember the happy moments. Other times, a person needed to learn one final lesson, a lesson that had been laid out over the course of their life day by day but never fully realized. Sometimes the highlight video was darker, serving as a wake up call Marvin felt no one should ever need.

“I got you, Melissa,” he said out loud even though he was alone in the room.

Marvin was the best at his craft. He would make sure Melissa’s highlight video was worthy of a life well spent.

Once he selected a file, a box arrived. One of those convenient, just on time delivery systems only available in the after life. Inside the box was the tapes. The tapes each marked a chapter of the client’s life, carefully maintained with the memory untainted by the rosy spectacles of hindsight.

Melissa’s box was not very large, but the size of the box didn’t necessarily mean a short or unfulfilled life. Marvin had learned that from years of experience. How a chapter in a person’s life was determined was something Marvin had yet to figure out. He was never a number guy. To Marvin, he knew a small box only meant one thing.  He would have to make fewer tape swaps.

He hit play.

The Polaroid System sparked to life, a system named after the photograph company that was founded at the same time as the Highlights Division. 1948. On a small 6 inch by 6 inch screen, Marvin began to watch a life, the life of Melissa Park.

She had humble beginnings but a loving family. Her birth was met with tears from her father and silent joy from her mother. Marvin made a note on his legal pad. He had no information on her parents other than what was captured in the memories. Sometimes he would find out names in memory captured conversations, but it was simpler to just call them mom and dad for his notes.

The memories continued. Few at first. Melissa’s first step. Her first cut. The doll her parents got her for her birthday at the age of five.

Marvin changed the tape. Something had changed. Confused he switched back to the first tape and then back to the second.  He hadn’t missed it, but something had definitely changed.

He continued watching the video, looking for any indicator. There was an emptiness in the house. A sadness in her mom’s eyes. A piece of paper on the table. Marvin zoomed in. A funeral announcement.

Why hadn’t Melissa been at the funeral? The memory wasn’t captured. Maybe her mother hadn’t brought her. Why did people insist on hiding their pain?

He watched through a few years. The joy was still there, but it had a ceiling. There were smiles, but it wasn’t the same. The house wasn’t full of life as it had been on the first tape.

At age 12, another change. Melissa’s mom brought home a man and introduced him to Melissa. He talked in a soft voice and bent down to Melissa’s level to say hello.

The next tape started with a wedding. Melissa triumphantly walked her mother down the aisle. She was all her mom needed. They’d been a unit, but life adapts and transforms. People fade in and out of the picture of a person’s story. This new man had his work cut out for him.

Hank. Hank Newman was his name. He owned a hardware store.

Baseball games with the neighborhood kids. Melissa hitting the ball over the fence and gloating. Punching the neighborhood bully in the face when he took exception to the speed of her running.

Age 15. A fight. A brutal fight. Melissa had questions about her father. Wondered why the truth had been kept from her. The words were vicious, cutting in the way that only family can cut.

Hang in there, Melissa, thought Marvin. She did what she thought best. There is a lot of story left to weave. Don’t cut a thread short here.

Tears. Hugging, and true healing. Healing from wounds left untreated that no one was willing to admit.

A new tape.

A first kiss. A new man in the picture. Artie Lemanche.  Love, but a new kind. A proposal. More tears.

A new tape. A new career. Teaching. First days of struggle and then slowly getting it. Her first pay check. Running her finger along her name written on the line.

A new tape. Children. Two beautiful children. A boy and a girl. Their births. Their first smiles. Their first steps. Their first cuts. Their first day of school.

A new tape. The children are gone, away at college and beyond, but her daughter calls everyday. Trips with Artie. Seeing the world.

A new tape. A hospital room. Sickness. Artie’s life fading away. Holding his hands for his final seconds.

A new tape. Walking through her home. Touching the walls. The memories they marked. Savoring the moments they carried. Visits from her family. Holidays. Birthdays.

The memories were moving fast now. Marvin could barely take notes fast enough, but even though he could slow down the tape, he refused to use the features. He wanted to experience the memories the way they were lived, fast, fleeting, beautiful.

The last tape. A single scene. Melissa’s bedroom. Pictures all over the walls. Mementos from carnivals, school plays,  and trips. A noodle picture with the words, “I love you grandma.” Noise from the other room. The house was alive again. People were laughing. The kids were all there. Eyes closing. Darkness overwhelming.

The final tape came to an end, and Marvin sat motionless, savoring the emptiness in the world the seconds after a life leaves it.

He scanned through his notes, wondering how he would capture it all in only three minutes. So much life to show.

He got to work, poking and prodding the clips. Slicing and moving them around the storyline. Capturing single glances, smiles, and tears. Every shot moving, driving the story to the biggest moment of culmination. Her retirement party. Artie. Her kids. Her students. Her colleagues. All there together. Celebrating her life. Sharing with her the impact she had made. The legacy she would leave behind. The shot faded away left with just the image of a baby smiling in a mirror for the final moments of the video.

Melissa. This was your life. Welcome to the world. You have a lot in front of you.

Marvin hit save on the finished project. He took the tape and placed it in another folder. Before placing it in the mail drop off, there was one thing left to do.

Aside from name, date of birth, and heart rate, his packet of customer information had one more line item. One item he always saved for the end, after a video was complete.

Two words.

Final destination.

The answer always read the same.

Information redacted.

Marvin looked at the video, packaged safely in his hands. He thought of who she was. He thought of her life. He thought of her legacy.

Melissa would be just fine.

He sent the highlight video on its way.

The list of names had grown again. No matter. Marvin was the best, and the process simply shouldn’t be rushed.

Marvin picked up the next folder.

Jonah Reynolds. Born 1992. Heart rate 124.

Marvin touched the name.

“I’ve got you, Jonah,” he said out loud even though he was alone in the room.

He opened the box, took the tape, and hit play.