The Memoirs of Brent Crinchell
A riveting exploration of sexuality and the mischievous antics of adolescence
Of Cheese Graters and Belt Sanders
The transition from middle school to high school was a rather significant right of passage, appropriately inaugurated the Crinchell way, with a summer of lawless lunacy and lasciviousness. One day I ventured over to consort and conspire with my best friend and fellow anarchist Mac McLoffin, a viable understudy for Kid Rock, minus the white trash title. That night I was delighted to learn my consistently capable counterpart managed to procure a new flavor to add to our smorgasbord of substances—LSD. We indulged in our tickets to paradise, transforming his room into an inter-planetary portal to cosmic wonder and delight. The next afternoon we awoke from our stupor, dazed and confused, not to mention slightly bewildered, to find traces of blood speckled throughout what was another realm the night before. Despite our best efforts, we failed to vaguely recollect what transpired in our acid adventure, but noticed our T-shirts were stained brown around the left arm. Upon inspecting the cotton litmus, the mystery was solved. At some point, it apparently seemed like a good idea at the time to carve “FUCK YOU” in legible 1-inch block letters, much like young adolescents commemorating their affection in the bark of a tree, deep into one another’s left tricep. The grisly wounds were etched deep, still oozing and attempting to scab. Snickering at our drug induced body art, we agreed to conceal the evidence and vowed never to divulge what precipitated it. For the next week, I was mindful at all times of the red badge of stupidity brandished on my arm. Instead of strutting around the house in my typical bare-chested attire, I opted for the conservative choice—a sleeved shirt. My covertly cautious campaign proved to be effective, until one disastrous day. After a marathon shower, I emerge from the bathroom, dripping-wet on what was a rather hot summer afternoon, electing to air dry in hopes of keeping cool. Unaware that anyone was home, I proceeded to parade around the house naked in a liberating fashion, establishing my reign as the master of my domain. Just as I swaggered up the stairs, bobbing freely at each step, my Mom barely makes her presence known, as she stealthily glides through a doorway to the left. Startled by her surreptitious skulking in my peripheral, I instinctively make an about face turn to the right, raising my left thigh in a Captain Morgan pose to censor my dangling manhood, simultaneously crossing my arms in an attempt to conceal the bizarre flesh wound engraved in my left arm. This masquerading maneuver translated as suspiciously awkward at best. Teetering the stairs in a plaster pose Michelangelo could admire, I nervously made a nonchalant attempt to grin and nod, which looked more like a duck-billed smirk on a Glamour Shots model featured as a centerfold in Pillow Biter’s Digest. Appearing to bridle her amusement, my Mom chuckles, “Hey. So… whatcha doin’?” To which I hastily replied, “Ah… nothing,” hoping for a long awkward pause to conclude this embarrassing encounter. Usually the role of exhibitionist was reserved for Dick Crinchell, who proudly marched through the house on a regular basis, displaying his unsavory collection of not so whitey tighties after numerous bouts with dribbles and skid marks, or the always unsightly organic option. After a playful recommendation to don pants lest my Father’s lewd prancing perpetuates through his progeny, Tori Crinchell begins to retreat down the hall. Already exhaling a sigh of relief, my reassurance was short lived as Momma Bird snapped a squinted glance back, straining her eagle eyes near the danger zone—being my arm, much to the disappointment of perverts and NAMBLA enthusiasts everywhere. She began approaching, still narrowing her focus from the abrupt double take, as she inquired about the strange mark that I was obviously sheltering from her prying eyes. Befuddled, I stuttered and stammered with wide eyes as I crafted a not so clever explanation, which entailed a fall and a scrape—the typical response to domestic disturbances. My interrogating Mother had no appetite for the verbal excrement I served up. With an emerging frown she reached for my hand to uncover the mysterious culprit. Upon first glimpse she gasped in horror, covering her gaping mouth with a clenched fist. She was stunned for a moment, slowly lipping the profane inscription repeatedly to herself, staring intently at the still bloody scabs bordered by the vibrant texture of freshly scarred skin. Once the totality of the circumstances was fully processed, I watched the grievous expression of my lamenting Mother morph into the terrifying tempest of Mommy Dearest, much like a snarling werewolf at full moon. Transformed with the vengeful fury of Grendel’s Mother, Tori Crinchell roars with rage, demanding answers for this epidermal abomination. Bound by the brotherly acid oath, my mind raced for an alternative answer that might appease the vehement wrath of my Mom, who’s dreadfully distorted scowl looked like the possessed child from the Exorcist. I selected the more innocent scapegoat, and blamed the maniacal mutilation on the overindulgence of alcohol. Bracing for a shower of pea green vomit from her swiveling head, I was pleasantly surprised with her change of countenance, which resumed its human form as she pondered with a squinty gaze, clenched teeth, and a slow methodical nod. Clearly, there was some cold, calculating contemplation in that cranium that made me cringe. Concluding the internal deliberation, she smiled perditiously and replied in a patronizing customer service tone, “Well since you got it on, your gonna have to get it off.” Before I could utter a protest she interjected, “I don’t care what it takes, but it better not be visible for the vacation.” The deadline her ultimatum referred to was a cruise commemorating my grandparents’ 50th anniversary, requiring the entire Crinchell family’s attendance, scheduled nearly 3 weeks away. Now the collective Crinchells are a competitive clan, incessantly rivaling each other through cunning schemes, perpetually striving to obtain the coveted favor of the elders—or grandparents, to sound less cultish. Presumably, this demand was more strategic foresight than matriarchal masochism. Begrudgingly, I proceeded to carry out my sentence, knowing I wouldn’t have the luxury of the acid anesthetic. After rummaging through a hoard of hunting equipment, I selected the sharpest buck knife from the lot, pondering the best method for this vile procedure. With hesitance, I began at the F, slicing in a firm horizontal motion, as if delicately peeling a potato skin. This topical technique only succeeded at removing the scabs and carving jagged notches that dripped blood profusely. In search of a better utensil, I fumbled through the kitchen gadget compartments, hoping for something more abrasive. I inspected the candidates—citrus peeler, melon baller, potato skin peeler, some serving fork or mini triton… cheese grater. This was the tall box shaped type with distinct notches on each side for various grated sizes. One side was patterned with small shrapnel like protrusions for fine grating—ideal for initial scraping. So I began with firm, even strokes, vying for a smooth finish with each swipe of extreme exfoliation. The blood trickling down my arm conjured mental images of a botched circumcision, or the handiwork of a deranged Lorena Bobbit—likely from cringing at the penis chomping vampire nymphos in Bram Stoker’s Dracula the night before. Leaning over the crimson sink, which served as a basin for my dripping life force, I transitioned to the largest grating grooves for a deep excavation. The result looked like shredded cheese, though more like bright red chunks, with clumps of skin and hair—much like the marinara at Olive Garden. Upon appraising the damage, I determined enough flesh was exhumed to buff out the profane phrase scarring the sinews of my tricep. Leaving the wound to heal, I realized that grated cheese would never be the same. Fast forward to two weeks later. The last of the patch of scab flakes off to reveal an unfortunate result. Despite my best efforts, the universal explicative was still faintly visible beneath the fresh layers of tissue and skin. Surely my dictator of a mother wouldn’t accept this failed endeavor. As expected, after inspecting the still visible vestige, she reaffirmed the order to eradicate every trace of the odious caption. Irritated over the verdict, I insolently stormed off in a tumultuous tantrum, anticipating the insidious task that imminently approached. Meandering through the rubble of rubbish that was the garage, I fingered various power tools with a sinister intent only Patrick Bateman shared. With abrasion in mind, I selected a belt sander, which looked promising. After a few test runs on wood shims, this was undoubtedly the ideal tool for the job. With hesitance, I flipped the power on and inched my arm closer to the sadistic sander, bracing for first blood. The sander shrieked at first contact, stinging slightly but not nearly the searing pain I had envisioned. The belt track immediately streaked ruby red once more pressure was applied. The now gaping bloody wound streamed down my arm, beading off my fingertips like satanic stalactites, puddling on the floor. The destructive device expelled a steady splash of scarlet against a cardboard canvass, a macabre mural only the Blood Countess of Cachtice could delight in. Satisfied with the erosive outcome, I shut off the belt sander and proceeded to find the Inspector General in hopes of emancipating myself from her tyrannical edict. Clutching the bucket that served as a makeshift trough, I trudged up the stairs to my Mother’s lair for an official examination. Unaffected by the still pulsating gash, Tori Crinchell scrutinizes the surface area, insensitively prodding the epicenter with a firm finger. With a reluctant sigh, she consents to conclude her repugnant retribution, sternly warning the errant expression had better not be visible to the critical eyes of the Crinchell family. A week later we embarked on the cruise, which was a smooth voyage all things considered. At the sight of my bandaged arm, curious inquisitors were surprisingly satisfied with a simple scrape cover story, without forcing any follow-ups. Crisis averted, mission accomplished—not to steal from the presumptuous banner our former fearless leader hoisted in fanciful admiration. Reflecting upon this bizarre yet strangely standard occurrence, I concluded that when it comes to self-abuse, I prefer the kind with ample lubrication.
