A question of etiquette
When I moved in here, I understood that it would be different sharing an alley with a church—particularly an inner-city, full gospel, all-singing, all-dancing church. (Okay, I made up the part about dancing. I think.)
I’ve grown accustomed to services on Sundays, which can last long into the afternoon depending on how the spirit moves the congregation. I sort of look forward to choir practice night when, unconstrained by the rituals of worship, they really rock the house. (Have I mentioned they have a full brass section? It’s sort of like living next-door to Tower of Power.)
I’ve even gotten used to the rowdiness before and after youth group functions. (Although last Saturday listening to them shout “Car wash!” at passing vehicles all morning and afternoon did get a bit tiresome.)
I was, however, unprepared for this morning. Nothing in life had prepared me to deal with the situation. Even Emily Post had nothing to say on the matter. (I checked at work.)
What exactly is the proper way to show one’s respects for the dead when you’re naked in your bathroom brushing your teeth, and a hearse pulls up outside the window?
I wasn’t exactly dressed for the occasion. I had no hat to remove. And bowing my head would have made a mess of foam, spit and mucus on the floor.
I did manage to told off on spitting and gargling until after they toted the dear departed inside, so that’s something I guess. And while the bereaved were inside, I exchanged pleasantries with the undertakers when I left for work. I hope that was enough.
