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I heard the spigot
running again. Fortunately, I already had shoes on, so I flew out
the front door to see a group of three or four construction workers
washing hands, filling buckets, etc., at the side of my house.

I shouted, “Hey! Hey! Don’t … don’t use my water! That’s my water! I
pay for that! Stop using the water!”

I was greeted with an equal mix of blank and bemused expressions. I
didn’t have the cojones to say, “no robar el agua!” because I can’t
really back it up with more (read: “more agressive”) Spanish. So I stuck with
my mother tongue, and I imagine the stammered English went un-parsed by some.
But my meaning was clear, and here’s where the bemusement comes in: “Who is
this kid, playing like he owns this house, and where does he get off shouting
at us for taking his water?”

The worker nearest the spigot shut it off. They all backed away slowly,
looking at me with the same blank expressions. One of the workers
apologized in clear, brief English: “Sorry. Sorry about that. Really
sorry.” But his face bore only the slightest glimmer of contrition.

I called the building office again to let them know it was still going
on. (Also to inform them that the construction had taken out a chunk of
our fence. Minor details like that.)