Story: At the Faucet

Characters:
Ibyang—a forty-year-old storeowner
Milet—a beautiful woman in her late twenties

At a public faucet shared by several households, the two women are washing clothes without talking to each other. Milet is taking her time and hums a Tagalog love song in Hiligaynon accent. Ibyang is washing her laundry fast, glancing often at Milet and Milet’s laundry. The two women finish soaping their respective laundries, and both reach out for the faucet at the same time to rinse the clothes. They freeze.

Ibyang: Please, Milet, let me do it first. I’m really in a hurry. I’ve still got to open my store.

Milet: But you’ve got more laundry, Ibyang, and I also have something else to do.

Ibyang: I’ll work fast.

Milet: I have fewer clothes to rinse, so it won’t take much time.

Ibyang: No, I assure you. You know me, I work really fast. Next time you know, I’m done. It’s for you too, Milet. I know you want to have time doing things. If you wash your laundry first and I wait, you’ll be pressured to finish it right away.

Milet: It’s all right, Ibyang. I don’t mind working fast. I’ve got something to do, too. I still have to cook lunch, and prepare formula for my youngest.

Ibyang: You’re husband does those things. I mean, your husband can do those things for you.

Milet: My husband helps out, but I do those things. My youngest wants no one but me to feed her. And Nang Ibyang, your husband can also open the store for you.

Ibyang: He can’t. He’s tired from working at the municipal hall from Monday to Friday. He only gets to rest now that today is Saturday.

Milet: But I arrived here first, Nang Ibyang. You should let me finish washing first.

Ibyang: So you’re talking about rights and order now. Well, let me tell you, Milet. I should have top priority in using the faucet since I always pay on time the twenty-peso monthly bill.
Milet: I also pay the water bill.

Ibyang: Oh you do? I know everything, Milet. I’m the collector for this faucet. When was the last time you paid? Three, four months ago?

Milet: That’s too much. I missed paying just for the last two months. And that does not really have something to do on who gets to use the faucet first. I arrived here earlier than you did.

Ibyang: No, Milet. The payment has everything to do with who gets to use first—or who gets to use—the faucet. You’ve been delayed from paying for months, and I paid for you, just so that the barangay wouldn’t cut off our line. If we are all to be really strict, you no longer have the right to use the faucet. I should be using your share.

Milet: That’s not fair. The twenty pesos is just a maintenance fee. The water system is from the government. The water is for everyone. Don’t you worry, I’ll pay you what I owe you.

Ibyang: [Shows her open hand to Milet] Really? Then give it to me now. And while you’re at it, pay me everything that you owe my store. Your list is quite long. It amounts now to three or four hundred.

Milet: [Pauses for a while] All right, I’ll pay you everything and will never get any credit from you.

Ibyang: My hand is waiting.

Milet: I’ll pay you later. I left my purse at home. Now let me finish my laundry.

Ibyang: [Blocks Milet] Hey, hey. We’re not talking about purses here. We’re talking about money. Sure you’ve got a purse at home, but does it contain—

Milet: I’ve got a purse, and it’s got money inside. My husband’s got work, you know.

Ibyang: Work? What kind of work? His working as a laborer at the corn mill? It’s not harvest season yet, and your husband has been holed up in your hut for weeks now.

Milet: Why do you know so much about us? Why are you sneaking on us?
Ibyang: I am not sneaking on you. How dare you accuse me of such a thing. I’m just waiting when you will pay your debts to me. Now you’re really getting into my nerves. Why don’t we have everything settled now? Let’s go to your house and get your money together.
Milet: [Snifling] Why are you like this to me? What have I done to you?

Ibyang: Now don’t you put on that act with me. You won’t convince me. That’s what you’ve been doing to my husband. Don’t you think I don’t notice it? You wait until he’s the only there inside the store and then you put on your act and ask for credit from him.

Thank you for reading up to this point. I have completed this mini play, which I wrote for a playwriting class at Silliman sometime in November last year, but my typewritten copy ends here, and I can’t find the handwritten ending. Here’s how the story concludes, anyway: The two women continues to argue, exchanging six or seven lines more for each, until the argument turns into a catfight. They are either separated by other people or they get tired. Someone turns on the faucet, and the women find out that there’s no water, as what happens often in the village.

This scene was a simple homework, an exercise on how to use stock characters (dumb blondes, potbellied policemen, terror professors, and the like). I must have missed the instructions—it was the first day of class—because my output doesn’t have a stock character, except maybe if you stretch the palengkera or wet-market woman to include any quarrelsome woman, such as Ibyang and Milet.

The scene is inspired, of course, by ordinary village life. Such a conflict happens sometimes between neighbors, although rarely as melodramatic. In many rural areas, Kulaman Plateau included, the community water system is not yet metered per household, and a number of families has to share one water source. It’s a sure recipe for micro disaster, but having a common faucet is much better than fetching water from a well, which I will write about in my next post.