MY FIRST (AND LAST) NATIVITY PLAY

 I was beside myself with excitement.  Sister Margaret Mary, my convent high school headmistress (the personification of pure evil - picture the nun from the movie of the same name), had just announced that the school would be presenting a nativity play for Christmas.  I had always dreamed of being an actor and figured this was my big opportunity to have the entire school witness my outstanding dramatic talents.  And I assumed that Sister Margaret Mary, having heard my many and various excuses for being late, realized that I was the obvious choice for a leading role.

I was sure that I was a shoo-in for the virgin Mary as I was a virgin myself and I knew a guy named Joseph, so you can imagine my absolute shock when the cast list was posted and I was to play 'Shepherd #2', with one measly line - 'Here is the babe."  Here is the babe?  What kind of completely pointless remark was that?  Any idiot could see that the babe was right there in the straw.  And I didn't even have a name!  But the biggest shock to my sensitive thespian soul was the person who was to play Mary - Mary Finnegan, the biggest suck-up since the invention of the vacuum cleaner!  She couldn't act!  Oh sure, she was better looking than me and had long flowing auburn looks, whereas I looked like I had just stuck my finger in an electrical socket, but she had a permacold so she was always sneezing.  How could she be the mother of God when she was constantly on the verge of sneezing on the baby Jesus and covering him in snot?

I practiced my one measly line to try to give it some dramatic import, but when I ad-libbed the line "Here is the babe.  Isn't he gorgeous?  Although he looks like a stewed prune on account of him just being born," I was told that if I didn't stick to the script, I could easily be replaced. 

The night of the big performance came.  Mary Finnegan looked lovely in her costume of a long, flowing blue gown and white veil, while I looked like a tool in my bed sheet tied at the waist with a bit of rope.  But all was not lost!  It turned out that Shepherd #1 was Mickey Whelan, who was a babe that every girl dreamed of getting off with.  I had had many dreams in which he swept me off my feet and we went to live on a desert island in the Pacific.  But everyone knew that he fancied Mary Finnegan - snotty nose and all - and he took full advantage of his position on stage by standing really close to her and smiling.  And she kept smiling back at him even though she was supposed to be married to Joseph and should have been showing signs of post-partum anxiety.  

I kept trying to make eye contact with him, what with us being fellow shepherds and all, but he ignored me.  So when the three wise men showed up and Mickey took the box of gold (or it could have been the frankincense or myrrh because they were all cardboard boxes covered with tinsel) from one of the wise men and handed it to Mary, making sure he touched her hand as he gave it to her, I had had enough.  I stood on her veil.  I'm not sure what I hoped to achieve with this move, but it proved to be pivotal to what happened next.  

Her veil slipped off and, as she clutched at it, she fell against Mickey Whelan, who, Casanova that he was, grabbed her to stop her from falling - although he was clearly just trying to cop a feel.  And as she fell into his arms, his leg went up and kicked the manger, sending the baby Jesus flying into the audience and landing in the lap of Denis Brennan who cried out "Ah Jayzuz" - a fitting remark, as it happened.

Then the assembled cast of the holy baby shower looked on in horror as Mickey Whelan lost his balance and he and Mary Finnegan fell backwards hitting the cardboard frame of the stable and the whole set fell down around them.  Everyone ran for cover.  Denis Brennan threw the baby Jesus back onto the stage and, as I was the only person still standing amongst the rubble, I grabbed the baby and managed to deliver my line "Here is the babe!"  

Thinking this was the perfect line at the perfect time, I took a bow to complete stunned silence from the audience.  I heard Sister Margaret Mary scream "Helen Morrissey!" as the curtains quickly closed and I surmised, correctly as it turned out, that I was not a contender for the Oscar for best dramatic performance.

Half an hour later, after the set had been quickly reassembled, the production started again - without me.  I was standing backstage nursing a throbbing ear - compliments of Sister Margaret Mary's fist.  I stood watching the whole performance under the watchful eye of Mother Columba - the oldest nun in the convent, who weighed 400 pounds and threatened to sit on me if I moved.

When the show finished, I managed to skulk away during the closing speeches.  I congratulated myself on having escaped with only a thick ear, figuring that all would be forgotten in the excitement of all the congratulations on a show well done.  I was wrong.  

The next day I came to school and discovered that I was now sitting beside Mary Finnegan and I spent the rest of the year listening to her sneezing and wiping snot off my desk.