Dirty Sixth – Kassie Rene

March 27, 2026

For ten dollars, there were party buses from San Marcos to downtown Austin each weekend. Retired elementary school buses, which had been sold and painted black. The insides ripped out. Bars on the ceiling. Strobe lights. Solitary stripper pole. If I had enough to drink, sometimes I would dust off my hands and spin around the center, leaving bruises on my thighs. I took shots of whiskey and vodka straight from the bottles passed from hand to hand and mouth to mouth. I hoped I wouldn’t get sick from some stranger’s lips on the tip. But still, I took a sip. It was worth it.
        My friends nudged me to steal the aux and play the songs only we liked. And I had no shame about ripping someone else’s phone off the cord. Tossing it, not caring where it landed on the bus. I had no shame in taking or doing whatever the fuck I wanted. I knew how to make people think they liked what I liked. I knew how to make people think I was right, even in all my taking. I knew how to get mouths gaping open, hands reaching for the ceiling, bodies pulsing into other bodies as cars zipped along both sides of the party bus, driving down the center lane. All while unstable in my heels.
        I liked pushing my head through the windows to watch the loop-de-loop near Riverside, the way my stomach lurched when we went down the hill, lining up my buzz with the view from i-35. And I was used to stepping out at our destination, Dirty Sixth. It was familiar. The smell of piss and vomit and booze, right next to the glitter and music and lights.
        In those days, if you were a pretty girl, a promoter would appear in seconds offering a free round of whatever drink at whatever club. There was always some other frat boy with his daddy’s credit card to buy the next drink. Or, his actual daddy. It was a system that benefited all parties. And if it didn’t benefit me, I walked out and started again. In Austin, this was just the way the weekend was done. But I don’t know what it is like now. Maybe it was always this way. Maybe it has remained the same.
        One night a guy bought me a drink and the bartender was a bitch. I don’t remember what was said. Probably, I didn’t hear. Probably, she wasn’t a bitch. We were all drunk. But I reached into the jar and snatched back the tip with two fingers, returning the bills to his hands as if I had contributed. We both stood there, shocked I’d dared to cross the boundary of an open jar. No one said anything, so I did it again. And again. And throughout the night. And nights.
        I groped for handfuls of cash from the tip jars and shoved the money inside my push-up bra. Even with my tiny tits, there wasn’t enough room. I had to figure out a way to get rid of the money, so I could get more. I went to Papa Rollo’s and offered to buy everyone a slice, as if I were one of those guys buying shots.
        It’s on me, I said.
        And I pulled out the cash I had stolen from the sweaty area underneath my boobs. Then, I went back for more.
        No one said anything. No one saw me. Or cared what I was doing with all that cash floating around, wafting back into the street, sticky with booze. I dropped tons, too fucked up to reign it in.
        I got caught by a bouncer. He snatched my left wrist and twisted the same arm around, so it was my own body pushing back. He put one giant hand on the back of my neck as he drove me down the stairs, and threw me on the asphalt. It hurt. Everyone had seen. And up my skirt.
        The guys from the party buses were all standing outside. Xavier. Karl. Jio. Xavier had a crush on me and was the loudest about his screaming, It was fucked up. Fucked up, man. To do that to a girl.
        But he was using the opportunity to close in around my hand, wrist too fragile, for once, to pull back. Karl and Jio were the ones who started fighting.
        I kept trying to tell them, I shouldn’t have done it. To stop defending me. I was so out of line. I knew it. Had done it anyway.
        But the girls materialized, touching up my mascara, blowing air underneath my eyes, saying, Don’t cry. It’s okay. Don’t cry. The boys will take care of it.
        When the girls told the bus driver to wait because the boys were still out front, fighting the bouncer, and why, he ripped off his t-shirt and sprinted to join them. He wasn’t even one of us. He was only supposed to be driving. The carrier of our fun.
        I took his place at the front of the bus, wrapping my middle finger and thumb around the injured area.
        When I looked down the steps, the girls help up their phones, still standing outside on Dirty Sixth.
        There was a flash.
        I put my hands at the ten and two, pushed back my shoulders, and smiled.
        I kept trying to get them to stop. Kept pausing and letting my face drop to say, No, for real, y’all. My wrist fucking hurts.
        But they laughed. Said, Take more pictures. Take pictures. Vogue.
        I lifted my head and struck another pose. I was good at it. I didn’t feel so bad about taking the money anymore. Maybe I forgot. How quick I went back to dancing. How easy I slept through the night.
        Someone sent a screenshot in the morning of a guy who Tweeted, Yoooooooooo this white girl driving the bus eggplant emoji fire emoji heart eyes.
        Everyone in the group chat laughed. One of my friends responded, This her?? And attached a picture of me, there in the bus driver’s seat.
        The guy said, YES what’s her @ ???
        And when they tagged me, I saw myself smiling and pretending, though the tears hadn’t yet dried.