In this city, the most famous spots where people gather to listen to good music and have a drink are usually downtown, where the light reaches without issue and everything is calmer. But for the rest of us, we knew the night differently—a little dirtier.
The live music bars and clubs in the Las Flores district smelled strange, like spilled beer and old memories. The same scent that clung to your clothes after every shift. It was pretty common to see doped-up people sleeping on the stairs or tucked away in some corner. Back then, I worked at this place as a bartender, and then I had to clean everything up when morning came and the sun returned.
The bar was the same as ever: the small stage where musicians squeezed in, the tables scratched with initials and drunken promises, the worn wooden counter from so many glasses resting on it.
I had sworn never to come back, but places like this have a magnet for those who think they can escape.
Now, I was here again—not behind the bar serving drinks or with a rag in my hand cleaning up after someone else's party. The music still sounded just as off-key, people laughed at the same jokes, and I, in the middle of it all, knew that some debts aren't settled with a simple "see you later." They just wait, crouched in the shadows, until you think you've forgotten.
I skirted around the edge of the stage and slipped through an opening with a door marked "Employees Only." Then I went in, moving through hallways and dingy dressing rooms, past rooms where people lived, oblivious to any noise.
I climbed a set of metal stairs and finally headed toward the only door on the second floor.
"Come in."
"Good evening, boss."
"What brings you here? You didn't even show up for Christmas."
"I have family, you know."
"So, what do you want?"
He was a lanky man, bald, looking older than he really was. He wore a shirt and jeans to give the illusion that he was working—something that only fooled himself. If I were in his place, I'd be in pajamas. After all, he had people like me taking care of everything downstairs.
"Look, I'll be brief."
"...It's about money."
"Uh-huh… yeah."
"After you abandoned me and said you got a job that paid double?"
"...Exactly."
"That this bar was shit and that we could all go eat shit?"
"...Yeah."
"And above all, when I was the only one who hired you knowing you were underage… or well, you still are. You know, you're really careless with your words. I could've called social services."
His name was Henry, and he never told me his last name. He was my boss and, apparently, also something like my mother's boyfriend back in their youth. He used to joke that he could be my father—even in front of his wife.
"When do you turn 18?" he asked.
"November."
"Then we'll have to throw you a party."
I laughed.
I usually say I'm 18 to avoid problems—like people questioning why someone like me is taking care of someone like María.
Either way, it's not much of a stretch, since I'll actually be 18 in a couple of months.
"All the employees still think you're 21 and that you were my nephew."
"So..."
"Yeah, though I just hired someone new to do your job. So, I'll only give you your spot back if you ask nicely. You'll like her—she's a hard worker. You'll get along."
"No, actually, I can't work anymore."
Even if I could keep it a secret from this man, I couldn't risk María's scholarship. The condition was that neither of us could work. I get that minors aren't allowed to work—in fact, I had to confess my real age to this guy, and luckily, he didn't say anything (that's, like, a crime, right?). But I guess the main reason is so I don't neglect María during this school phase she's going through.
Still, it wasn't a lie that we'd been abandoned two years ago. Well, when I was 15—though I later changed it to 16 so my story fit my needs, to trick people like the Borjas or any nosy neighbors.
Luckily, I look old enough for it to be believable.
That's also how I got to work here, though it's rare to find people who care about that. You never know when someone might stick their nose where it doesn't belong.
When I actually turn 18, I guess I'll finally stop being afraid they'll take my sister away.
"So…"
"Like I said, I need money. Don't tell anyone, but María got a scholarship, and one of the conditions is that neither of us can work."
"That's weird."
"I didn't write the contract."
"You could check it with a lawyer. Or work in secret."
"I don't want to risk anything… So, are you gonna help me?"
He thought for a moment, stroking his goatee. I tried to look pitiful, hoping he'd take pity on me.
"I'll give you something, but you have to pay me back in a month."
"How much?"
"500 bucks."
That's about 700. I guess I can work with that.
Now I have a backup in case María doesn't do well on that damn special exam. Or if the stipend increase is less than I thought.
"I've never called you 'uncle,' have I? Thanks, uncle."
"Shut up. Just don't be like your father, and pay me back."
"Don't worry, I'm not like those losers."
He handed me an envelope with the cash.
"Leaving already?"
"You want me to stay and clean?"
"I was gonna say you could stay for the show, but that's not a bad idea either. I'll deduct it from your debt."
If it was just for one day, I guess it just counts as helping out a friend.
"You know where the uniform is."
I went downstairs, and suddenly everything felt like the past—when this was my routine.
I got dressed quickly and left the employee-only area. Now, in uniform, it was like my eyes had changed, and I realized, without a doubt, that I'd always hate working.
I walked up to the bar, and there she was—the new girl.
She had red-dyed hair and was wearing a mask.
This place didn't care about capacity limits, and it was a pretty small venue. Everyone was practically close enough to kiss each other—and many did.
Kind of suffocating, I guess.
"Hey, Henry asked me to help out tonight. Is this your first day?"
"My third."
Her voice was muffled by the noise, soft and strangely calming—though maybe that was just the first impression I always make up about people.
I started showing her how to do things she wasn't sure about, but we didn't really talk—to say anything, I had to lean in and practically shout in her ear.
I noticed she had several piercings: eyebrow, ear, and I'd bet tongue and nose too. It contrasted a bit with the vibe I got from her.
Then the music stopped, signaling that the amateur artists were about to go on—an alternative rock band that didn't look very good.
In that brief silence, voices finally became audible—not just pretend noise.
She spoke.
"Sorry, I didn't introduce myself. I'm Alessandra Rossi."
"Lucas."
"They told me there used to be a bartender who also did janitor and security work."
"Yeah, that was me."
She let out a shy laugh. She found it hilarious.
"Sorry, it's my first job. Are all live music bars like this?"
"Only the ones in this part of the city. The others have more staff and are more about enjoying the music than getting wild. This place turns into a nightclub whenever it feels like it."
A couple of high school kids walked up to the bar. You could tell they were young by their faces—one of them, the one at the back of the group, stood there nervously while the others acted all cocky, like they were trying to prove something.
They had that fake veteran attitude only teenagers have when they drink for the first time away from home. They leaned on the counter with crooked smiles, like they were already celebrating something, and the tallest one looked at me with those bright eyes of someone who thinks the night is endless.
They glanced at the price list.
"Can we get two whiskeys?" he asked, trying to drown his teenage tone in a forced raspy voice.
This place still didn't ask for IDs.
Alessandra looked at me and whispered, "Hey, they're kids, right? Should we tell the boss?"
But the boss had already told me that if they looked old enough, just serve them what they asked for. Like some kind of daily quota that had to be met—to make some extra cash, but not so much that it caused trouble. Not a regular thing, just a little under the radar, like a mistake or some unavoidable error.
"They look old enough to me," I whispered back into her ear. "Don't worry, it's not the first time. The boss's best friend is a cop."
Yeah, that's why they always maxed out capacity, let people do drugs openly, or sold alcohol to minors to scrape together some extra cash.
You didn't have to be obvious—excess is bad, and sometimes you had to play it cool.
I said it like I was about to go to jail, but from what I know, almost everyone in the district did this as a teenager. It's like some kind of rite of passage, and some would look back on it with nostalgia. I was no exception.
I poured the amber liquid into the glasses—no ice, like Henry had told me he liked it before he learned that some flavors are better diluted. I slid the glasses toward them and watched as they grabbed them with eager fingers.
"Cheers," muttered the one in the cap, and they both took a swig, coughing slightly as the whiskey burned its way down.
Hungry to taste the world, convinced alcohol would make them more of a man.
I say that with supreme moral superiority, like some thousand-year-old sage. I forget that I'm their age—and instead of being out enjoying my first rebellious adventures with friends, I'm here, ready to kick out some drunk when the sun comes up.
We're the same. You could even say they're better, because at least they have friends to share their mischief with.
They felt like adults doing this, but it was fake.
I felt like an adult handing them drinks from behind the bar, but that was even faker.
Or maybe just a little sad.
Despite serving it, I still see alcohol with some curiosity, like an object from another world.
Introspection aside, the boys left once they finished their drinks, and I stopped paying attention to them.
"¿Cuántos años tienes?" she asked, intuitive.
"Me? 21." (In this bar, I said I was 21.)
She looked at me carefully.
A pot-bellied man and his wife walked up.
"Two Old Fashioneds. And don't make it taste like cough syrup, like last time," he said before stepping back to keep talking to his wife.
Alessandra tensed up.
"...Brown sugar. One cube, not a spoonful. Wet it with two drops of water and three of Angostura," she muttered to herself.
She obeyed but crushed the cube nervously. I moved my hand over hers, guiding the muddler in slow circles.
"Until it's like wet sand, not sticky. That way it blends in, doesn't sink to the bottom."
This wasn't some fancy place, and the pay didn't justify the effort—but I owed Henry a lot, and during my time here, I worked hard and learned a lot.
I added the bourbon slowly, then tilted the glass so she could see the amber color against the light.
"The ice is one big block, not cubes. If you use those, in five minutes it'll taste like dirty water."
"Try it," I told the man and his wife. "If the sweetness hits first and the bitterness lingers at the end, then it's done right."
The man walked away satisfied.
She smiled at me, shy.
"Thanks," she whispered back into my ear—because the music had returned, and I could barely hear her.
And like that, the hours passed. Every time a customer came up, I showed Alessandra how to make their drink better, since after tonight, I probably wouldn't be back for a while.
"...A Negroni."
"...A Martini."
"...A Ramos Gin Fizz."
"...Eight seconds exactly."
"...7, 8. Did it!"
"Congrats."
She giggled again. "Thanks."
It was already 4 AM, and soon the sun would return.
Then, from across the room, I heard:
"Hey, kid, what's wrong?"
Someone was getting too curious.
I was about to go call Alex, the security guy—a muscular guy in his thirties, bald but with arms thicker than my head.
"No, no… I'm fine."
The voice sounded familiar, and I froze.
What I saw next was the most shocking thing of the night.
The so-called queen—Ana Abantino—in a dive bar.