The Memoirs of Brent Crinchell
A riveting exploration of sexuality and the mischievous antics of adolescence
Damn It Feels Good To Be A Gangsta
Most delinquent minors are said to be a product of their own environment. I was no exception. Growing up as a spoiled little bastard in cookie cutter suburbia, I could relate with 2 Pac and Biggie. We all suffered from oppression. Mine so happened to be the seemingly deranged control of my parents, coupled with a top tiered private Christian school that flaunted a fetish for discipline. Indeed, it was a hard knock life. So freshman year arrived and the time had come to show how rough I roll. My douche bag friend and fellow bad ass knew some other societal misfit, that one way or another, had access to firearms and a medley of narcotics. Since we clearly had no other choice in life but to get rich or die tryin’, we began selling our prohibited merchandise. Business was booming, along with our street cred. Before long, notoriety of our entrepreneurial endeavor spread to a certain social circle at the prison we called our academic institution. This band of hooligans sought our services, as they were looking to acquire some small arms hardware. We arranged a meeting for the transaction later that week. A day before the deal went down, I got picked up from school and headed home, the normal routine. Shortly thereafter, my parents abruptly informed me in a vague and unsettling tone that we were immediately leaving to a meeting. I instinctively demanded an explanation, which was denied with a stern but restrained “Get in” from my parental units—a chilling response. The drive was muted with eerie silence as my mind contemplated a rapidly accruing list of potential worst-case scenarios. Obviously they became privy to one of my various transgressions, but I couldn’t begin to narrow down which offense. We finally make a distinctive left turn that suggests we must be headed to the Rigatoni residence. We briskly park and nervously ring the doorbell only to be greeted by a very somber Vinchenzo Rigatoni, who distraughtly utters a muffled greeting as he eyes the floor, then ushers us to the living room. The moment I turned the corner I froze in place and gasped. I was about to check my pants for a bloody pulse, as I was quite sure I just shit my heart right out. The very aspiring thugs I had arranged to sell arms to now filled the chairs cluttering the Rigatoni’s living room, along side their parents. Clearly, to some extent we were exposed, and there was no escape. A quick-witted rebuttal was my best defense at this point. The Crinchell’s were well endowed with the gift of gab. I scanned the room for any potential allies. Perhaps I could gather some intel on the situation with some non-verbal exchanges. Sequestered by his mourning mother, I locked a gaze with Giuseppe Rigatoni, my greasy haired bosom buddy and eventual partner in crime. The mozzarella whites of his eyes flared as he stared back, head nodding with a frantic expression, as if to say, “Were so fucked.” Next to him was our cocky colleague, Luscious Merilat, a pasty affluent industrial heir with aspirations of narcotic trafficking through a legitimate family owned rose business. A long foreboding face reminiscent to Eyore replaced his usual bravado and signature shit-eating grin. A frazzled Mr. Rigatoni stood to address the anxious audience encircling him. For some reason our Italian host thought it appropriate to begin the inquisition with a word of prayer. How predictable. He then proceeded to invite a mysterious speaker from the kitchen. My head cocked in disbelief, as it was none other than my childhood babysitter. I pondered what kind of freaky parallel universe I crossed into. He introduced himself as the head of the drug task force for the county—terrifying all the would-be felons in the room—but promptly informed us he was here unofficially, for our best interests. The mustached lawman explained that a familiar name surfaced on a surveillance list that caught his attention, prompting a hasty phone call to some old friends—the Crinchells. At his own risk, our uniformed messiah opted to exercise his authority to covertly contact my parents and organize this disreputable gathering, intending to derail this bunch of adolescent idiots from a collision course with doom. As in doomed to a life of forceful servitude in the concrete confines of a correctional facility, better known as a bottom bunk bitch. The top cop divulged that our phones were all tapped and our actions frequently monitored. It turns out the white van down the street tricked out with antennas isn’t exactly the “Phone Service” as its generic label indicated. Apparently our corrupt commerce was pending investigation, and the intended sale would have sealed our fates and inevitably ripped our rectums. It was sobering to learn the State’s revised statutes and regulations require a 5-year sentence for every handgun illegally obtained and distributed. Luscious shakes his head in disbelief, undoubtedly reflecting on his presumptuous request for a gold plated Desert Eagle 50 cal. Fucking douche bag. After concluding his plea for reform, our badged benefactor gave us an ultimatum: abandon this delusional fantasy immediately and salvage your futures, or continue in the path of tyranny and you will be met swiftly with the rod of justice—pun undeniably intended. After we all solemnly swore to change our wily ways and pledged to become upstanding, law abiding citizens, the sinister summit was concluded. Just as we all shared in a collective sigh of relief over the fate of our sphincters, my peculiar father interjects with a bewildering question. Appearing to hold back fake tears in a whiny voice, my dramatic Dad begins, “Alright guys, show of hands (raising his hand), who here has tried marijuana? C’mon now, lets all be honest here.” As if the torture we just survived wasn’t arduous enough, now were all supposed to confess in front of a crowd of scowling strangers. Mortified, I glare at my Dad with a blank stare, perplexed he would seize the opportunity to enact another one of his Dr. Phil fantasies with a group of wayward teens. Our self appointed interrogator’s impulsive litmus test failed to recruit any volunteers. Still raising his hand, and desperate to salvage his misguided attempt, he turns to me and says in a coercive tone, “Come on son.” Seriously? This stroke of brilliance accomplishes nothing. Not even a shred of relevance to the evening’s forum. Once again, Dick Crinchell manages to spatter the walls beating a metaphorical dead horse. Reluctantly I raised my hand, glaring at my Dad with clenched teeth. Of course my admittance was met by hushed murmurs, cold scowls, and shaking heads. Even my mortified Mom was wishing she could muzzle the moronic lunacy her denser half just displayed. In hindsight, perhaps it was an extreme case of boys will be boys. After the fact, I identified with my exonerated rap idols more than ever. The lesson learned: I had finally arrived as a 15 year old weed slangin’, ho bangin’, bust a cap in yo’ ass nigga, and the 5-0 couldn’t hold me down. The Geto Boys said it best; damn it feels good to be a gangsta.
