The Memoirs of Brent Crinchell
A riveting exploration of sexuality and the mischievous antics of adolescence
Speed Racer
It was the first day of classes at a new school. Not exactly an ideal setting for my senior year, but after my second expulsion from a fanatically conservative private school, beggars can’t be choosers. Needless to say, my parentals and I were at odds over everything at that time. Perpetually wrenching the levers of control, they finally conceded to let me drive, a privilege that was previously denied in hopes of corralling my shady shenanigans. Although my newfound liberation wasn’t exactly official according to the DMV, or our insurance carrier for that matter, I reveled in the sound of independence with each rev of my Acura Legend—an appropriate model for this narrative. After gulping down lunch at home, it was time to depart for my afternoon classes. With a mere 10 minutes until class starts, I lunged into my sizzling speed racer and sped off in haste. Under the scorching summer sun, my rice rocket became a rice roaster, especially considering the AC chose now of all times to retaliate with a convenient malfunction. The interior-turned-sweltering-sauna immediately had me basting in a pool of my own perspiration, prompting a swift strip down to bare chest. Now at this point a brief background is in order. Just days before, there was another infamous Crinchell encounter at the ER, as it turned out I experienced a minor heart attack, likely attributed to an assortment of illicit performance enhancing supplements. Consequently, I was ordered to wear a heart-monitoring device for 48 hours, complete with leads and suctions adorning my chiseled pectorals. En route with the perplexing appearance of a body building lab rat, the road was reduced to a single lane. Scanning ahead, it seemed I had the misfortune of advancing on a sluggish RTD bus. After tailing impatiently for a quarter mile, I was relieved as the snail of public transit signaled for the approaching bus stop and crept to a halt. However, the incompetent driver hardly pulled off the narrow road to allow traffic to pass by, immediately invoking a furious chorus of curses, coupled with enraged gestures. After 30 seconds of parked idling, all measures of patience and moral decency had volatized as my wrath blazed relentlessly at this bungling boob behind the wheel. Tracking the adjacent lane of on-coming cars, I resolved to pass the behemoth bus at the first break in traffic. The window of opportunity approached. Cranking the steering wheel in anticipation, I hastily eyed the short distance between the two bumpers. It appeared to be just enough to clear, though undoubtedly close—perhaps inches. Without hesitation, I stomped the accelerator with vengeful indignation, preparing to heckle my nemesis as I streaked by. In an instant my retribution collided—as did my fender—with the ridiculously oversized bumper featured on the RTD bus. Apparently I slightly miscalculated the turn, resulting in a rather ironic fender-bender. A large red sign directly above the point of impact mockingly read: “Thanks for the Brake!” Profusely livid, I roared piercing profanities and assaulted the steering wheel in a violent rage before stamping out to inspect the damage. It turns out inches do matter. The remains of the left turn signal lie shattered, littering the pavement, along with a crumpled fender. Conversely, my fortified foe suffered no casualties. At that moment, my RTD rival emerged, a wrinkled Walter Matthau look alike, hobbling down the steps in a disgruntled fashion. My ill-tempered adversary shuffled over, muttering to himself as he attempted to stare me down. The testy troll glared with a bitter scowl before barking, “What were you thinking!” Before I could unleash the fury within, geriatric Gimli waddles away dialing his phone. Assuming the worst, I storm after him, objecting there was no damage to his vehicle, thus, no need for incriminating phone calls. Before retreating to his lair, my irritable adversary crows, “I’m calling the cops!” My brewing anger quickly turned to panic, seeing as I didn’t have a valid drivers license or insurance at the time. Immediately my inherent instincts activated. Amidst my hatred for Cranky Kong, fighting simply wasn’t an option now—time to bail. Rushing to the wheel, I initiate flight mode with a fervent “Fuck it.” Swiftly shifting into reverse, the shriek of creaking metal sounded as the battle-scarred captive was released from its iron clutches. With considerable clearance, I peeled out in a screeching cloud of rubber vapor. Seeking redemption for the utter failure of my first attempt, I firmly saluted the bewildered chauffeur with an erect middle digit protruding from the sunroof as I blazed past. Immediately my eyes scan in all directions to ensure it was a smooth escape, checking the rear view mirror last. A triumphant laugh and sigh of relief were abruptly cut short as I glanced at my 6 o clock—there was the faint yet undeniable flashing of red and blue. Initially refusing to believe the optical intel, a double take confirmed a cherried squad car was advancing swiftly, roughly 200 yards and closing. A sudden jolt of adrenaline forced the pedal to the metal, intent on evading what was surely a record response time from the man in blue. The howling V-6 quickly climbed to 90mph as the glaring red of a traffic light approached rapidly. This climactic confrontation demanded decisive action. Reasoning to my subconscious, if I halted in obedience to this luminous authority it would inevitably result in my dubious demise. On the other hand, the trail may run cold for my pursuer, provided there is a steady flow of traffic to thwart his advances, which of course, would require me to nimbly weave through unscathed. Predictably, I chose the less altruistic option, streaking through the beaming barrier at light speed. Fortunately, I survived the first brazen trigger squeeze of intersection roulette. Peering back with anticipation, I was stunned to see the trailing patrolman replicated the manic maneuver, as did his shadowing comrade. Visions of COPS episodes flooded my mind. Careening up a steep hill, it seemed the only chance to lose Lakehood’s finest was to cut a sharp turn while they temporarily lost visibility on the incline. Preparing to take flight at the crest of the climb, a brief glimpse revealed a third tracker had joined the posse. Launching over the hill, my stomach nearly crawled up my throat, only to retreat upon impact. Immediately initiating the suicidal stunt, I slam the brakes, shift into neutral, and jerk the E-brake as black streaks scorch the pavement. In a fashion Jason Borne would admire, I crank a hard left that power slides wildly, nearly slamming the curb before achieving ample clearance. With a click into drive, white knuckles commandeer the wheel, as the elusive Legend darts through a docile neighborhood. Being unfamiliar with the area, or any possible exits to this cookie cutter residential labyrinth, I pondered my options. Spotting an open garage with a vacant space that could only belong to an elderly resident judging from appearances, I nonchalantly pulled in. Casually parking, I proceeded to shut the garage door, choking on the incriminating aroma of charred tires and a searing engine. Reassured that my wanted level just evaporated, I contemplated how long until I wore out my welcome with this convenient retreat. After 20 anxious minutes of silence, coupled with the looming threat of intrusion, I determined it was time to depart. Cautiously, I back out and resume the trek to school in a paranoid state. After what seemed like a gut wrenching eternity, I pulled into the parking lot at school without incident, or even sighting a police presence. Struggling for composer, I proceeded to strut into a new class for the first time as gracefully as my throbbing chest would allow. Within minutes there was a gentle knock at the door, followed by a sheepish head poking in. It was the school counselor that I toured around with yesterday. Her nervous smile broadcasted something was awry. In an unusually flowery, soft-spoken tone, she requests to see Brent Crinchell for just a second. Obviously this didn’t bode well. As I approached, I gave her the best Eddie Haskel hello-head-nod combo in my ‘respectful to elders’ arsenal. She made a brief yet awkward attempt to make eye contact—a creepy compliment to her pasty plastic smile—then retreated to inspecting the linoleum as she held the door open, suggesting I lead the way. Like a gang of skulking villains in a horror flick, I found myself encircled by a sea of navy blue with open leather palms and chirping radios. Instantly the trap closed in, as the mob of wide-eyed authorities rushed to tackle their teenage captor to the ground. After a flurry of hoots, hollers, and guttural grunts, a scurried effort to bound my wrists finally concluded after several bobbled attempts with no resistance. Seated on the floor, propped against the wall, the interrogations began. Taking a vow of silence, I despondently deliberated the pending charges as an inquisitive crowd of scholarly onlookers filed around. Shortly thereafter, the alpha officer 10-4’s into his shoulder mounted radio and suddenly orders his underlings to uncuff their devious delinquent. After a brief muffled huddle, the previously hostile handful of officers gingerly shuffled toward me. With a delicate disposition, they nearly whispered in a slow, overly articulate voice of their newfound knowledge of my heart condition, which they were taking very seriously. Awestruck, my gaping mouth couldn’t form a response, just a blank expression—which the admirably over sensitive officers took for symptoms of a heart attack in progress. After grasping my hand with several sincere inquiries to my current health status, the now uniformed allies reassured me with a shower of optimism and light pats on the back. Seriously? A ray of glorious sunshine beamed through the heavens, as inside I grinned ear to ear. Choking back fabricated emotion, I stammered, “I’m so sorry. I just, I dunno, I guess I just panicked. I didn’t see any damage to the bus, and I didn’t want to miss the first day of class. My heart was beating out of my chest and I just didn’t know what to do.” Another convincing performance brought to you in part by Eddie Haskel. Moments later my distraught parents arrived, rushing to coddle their seemingly handicapped prodigal son with a brittle embrace. They wasted no time in briefing me on their rendition of the situation, sparing no detail as mothers do. Apparently a squad car was dispatched to the sinister scene of the hit and run to interview the antagonistic RTD driver and obtain testimonials from a myriad of witnesses on board. One such account described the incident involving “a sexy chunk o’ white ass wit’ a computer tang’ all up on his sweaty chest ocifer. Mmm mmmm.” Indeed, a delightfully distinguishing description from a passenger with a penchant for trashy romance novels. Amidst the chaos, several eyewitnesses confirmed the license plate on the infamous Acura Legend, resulting in yet another visit to the Crinchell residence of Balsamic Street. Upon relaying news of my nefarious misdeeds to my bewildered parents, the dispatched detectives learned of my recent cardiovascular condition, which prompted an urgent order for arresting officers to approach the suspect with extreme caution with regards to his personal safety—not to mention a potential PR landmine for the department. The fragile memo didn’t arrive before the dog pile ensued, but better late than never. Then a tall, ogre of an officer approached casually to us, and proceeded to explain the charges. It turned out the sum of my offenses totaled a staggering 24 points—enough to lose a license twice over if I had one—a disparaging report. Hopelessness and despondence hung my head with a deep resignation, as the stern face behind the bristled mustached expounded. Concluding, the officer reiterated the charges in a very slow but suggestive tone, then confirmed my personal information aloud, looking up with a locked gaze and subtle head nod with each fluctuation of his voice. He then hands me the carbon copy of the charges, and says in the same indicative tone, as if hinting, “If this all looks correct to you, your free to go.” Scanning the pink parchment I instantly notice the pencil scribbles are full of errors from the date, to my vehicle and personal information. Instinctively I took a breath to point out the multiple mistakes, and then gulped the words down, as I finally realized what the considerate arm of the law was extending. In a compassionate gesture, the officer was apparently compelled to dismiss the day’s illicit events by intentionally filling the margins of the template with wrong information. Whether it was an official loophole out of a foreboding future, or merely an effective means of teaching a lesson to a troubled teen, I gratefully extended my hand with a sincere thank you. With a toothy grin he reciprocated firmly, “Have a nice day. Drive safe now.” It was a Hallmark moment. Relieved, I looked around to notice the halls were clogged with enthralled bystanders, captivated by the dramatic scene. At once I reassumed the role of badass, knowing this mysterious new kid in school just earned some serious street cred for his Grand Theft Auto antics. I reflected, these are tales that legends are made of. All things considered, senior year was off to an epic start.
