Christmas Eve’s end was approaching, soon to be taken over by a new day, the legendary gift-ensuing holiday of Christmas. Timothy, like many of his other cronies, was speculating on the gifts they were going to get, but most importantly, trying to decipher the reality behind Santa Claus. At the maturity of third graders, their feeble eight to nine year old minds still held on to the belief of the existence of a jolly man in a red suit, bearing gifts for all. The possibility for Santa to produce a gamut of presents led him to think that the man himself was running his own elven version of a Chinese sweat shop. Where did all of these small, young elves come from anyway? No matter, the only question Timothy and his fellow classmates were concerned with is if Santa Claus was real. Many of these children have attempted to catch a glimpse of the man in action but the concept of A.M. was overwhelmingly too much for their adolescent bodies to handle as their biological clocks struck “sleeping time”. However, Timothy was prepared to see the feat through. He had been training himself for the moment, utilizing late-night television and dabbling into the rush-inducing effects of the caffeine in his father’s black coffee to keep him awake during his ventures past his bedtime.

However, Timothy’s child innocence still permeated throughout his psyche, a part that still wanted to not find out the absolute truth of the origin of the gift wrapped treasures of happiness that appear below his decorated pine tree. The fateful moment was fast approaching. Christmas Eve was standing on its last few seconds before it transferred its mantle for Christmas. The internal war still raged within Timothy. Should he preserve his childhood ideals and wait until daybreak to traditionally open presents like everyone else? Or should he unravel the truth that eluded him so many years and bask in the glory of his friends’ awe for seeing the jolly man? After all, he didn’t want to lay his training to waste. Timothy wasn’t going to let the numerous accounts where his teacher berated him for falling asleep in class, as a result of his training, die in vain. Still not entirely confident in his decision, Timothy settled on the idea that if he was feeling even slightly tired, and then he would go immediately to bed. The problem was that he never felt even the slightest sliver of fatigue. His anxiousness fueled his alertness and further destroyed his sleep-wake cycle.

Little Timothy was well in the early morning, far surpassing any records he established before. However, reruns of his beloved Cartoon Network cartoons soon began to lose Timothy’s interest and the shot of densely caffeinated coffee that he took several hours prior was beginning to lose its stimulating effects on the adolescent. A block of Johnny Bravo finished its course at 4 A.M. and Timothy’s determination was wavering. The conviction of the nonexistence of a Santa Claus began to creep over Timothy’s mindset as he lugged his body upstairs towards his room to catch any sleeping hours before gift opening time. Approaching the final step in his vertical ascent, Timothy heard a slight thud on his roof. His ears perked up as he listened attentively for any additional noises. Could this be the answer to the life of an eight year old? Timothy crouched low like a preying tiger on his staircase and wiggled his narrow face between the rails of the stairs, staring intently at his dusty chimney. Suddenly he saw a quick blur of a shadow seemingly teleport down the chimney and towering over the cookies Timothy had set out for Santa. Could this intruder really be him? The figure took slow and deliberate bites of the chocolate treats while Timothy’s mind went abuzz. In a low and daunting voice, the figure spoke, “I know you’re there Timothy, it’s awfully past your bedtime and you’re on my naughty list”. Timothy, in the midst of trying to process the extent of the situation grew incredibly exhausted, as if the coffee he drank earlier was actually NyQuil. Timothy desperately tried to stay awake for his guest but lost consciousness on the stairs from where he was observing from.

A blistering cold wind abruptly awoke young Timothy like a slap on the cheek. Regaining his senses, he realized he was on some sort of aircraft, being led by, no it couldn’t be, reindeer! The contraption was being directed by the very same figure that invaded Timothy’s house, evidently Santa himself, and he was piloting his carriage towards a billowing smoke cloud, erupting from a factory-looking building. After processing the incredulous myriad of thoughts and feelings that coursed through poor Timothy’s neurons, he mustered up the courage to say something to the seemingly not so jolly man. “Where are you taking me?” The red suited man turned around with deep sunken eyes and replied “Well I’m going to need more toys next year and where do you think I get these small, young elves to build them?”