Babysitter Becky Gladstone and her boyfriend Paul were passed out in Mom and Dad’s bed. And Mom and Dad were hours from leaving the neighborhood holiday party with its bottomless bowl of spiked eggnog. If there was one chance to scout the presents under the Christmas tree, thought Scott Brown, 12, this was it.

This wasn’t his first rodeo. Four years prior, Scott had sleuthed out the location of a new bike. It was in the garage. He was younger then, more arrogant and had thought he could get away with a pre-Christmas joyride down Boston’s main drag. An hour later, the neighbors’ station wagon had pulled him over and he surrendered his Fisher Price license and registration.

Two years back the rents had caught him red handed when they covered the presents in a veneer of red paint.

But a few rookie mistakes in college did not dissuade Tom Brady from being world’s greatest professional quarterback, nor would his errors as amateur detective prevent the uncovering the holiday’s piece de resistance: a Nintendo 64.

Before the tree, Scott unpacked his supplies: a letter opener, a hairdryer for loosening Scotch tape, and rolls of Mom’s wrapping paper in case the shit really hit the fan. He dabbed a napkin against the present. No paint this year – interesting.

One by one, Scott lifted each box and reviewed his mental checklist.
1.) Gauge the size. Bigger than a breadbox? Smaller than a Game Boy?
2.) Shake it, lightly. Is this a red herring, a small box rattling around in a big box? Does it sound like socks?
3.) Weigh it. This requires some god given intuition. Does it feel like a Nintendo 64?

Scott was good at what he did. Last year, he had guessed a solid .750, even speculating the color of a sweater. Scott’s friends had called that part luck, but Scot didn’t believe in luck. Not when it came to Christmas conjecture.

This year’s take away looked positive enough. Scott figured there was a Dave Mathews Band CD, a PlayStation game and an assortment of socks, shirts and a New England Patriots Starter jacket. But nothing, nothing at all met his checklist criteria for a Nintendo 64.

This was all small stuff. Or wide and stout stuff. Nothing, except the jacket with its fabricy thud as it shook in the box, had the necessary weight of the N64.

Scott wouldn’t have worried had he not done his homework days before routing out the garage and the basement, the linen closet and the dusty space under Mom and Dad’s bed. Nadda. Zilch. No last minute bonus presents. No surprises hidden away in the darkest corners of the home.

Scott packed his supplies away and washed up. With his eyes full of sudsy water, he peeked out the bathroom window. It was a full moon. Little icey flakes had begun to stick to the window and somewhere between the walls of snow and that bright cookie of a moon, a silhouette passed of a dozen or so deer and big man in a sleigh. A Merry Christmas? It was in Santa’s hands now.