He’s Okay, Just a Little Nuts

“One last time Veinotte. Where is the blood coming from?” the guard said, standing with a cardboard cross in his hand. I didn’t answer – I just stood there grinning, but I figured I knew what was going to happen next.

The cross was white cardboard painted an ugly smeared red – painted with blood. It had been hanging on the wall of my cell, upside down of course. This same guard had taken one from my cell the day before and thrown it out. Today he found another in its place and was not real happy about it.

“Come with me.” He growled. I followed him off of the wing, down stairs. At the foot of the stairs I was told to wait while he disappeared around the corner, returning a moment later with another guard. They lead me down the hallway toward Bottom Flat, then hung a right. I knew I was going to the hole, the question was would I simply be strip searched and then returned to the West Wing or left in segregation.

“OK. Now you can either tell us where the blood is coming from or we are going to find out ourselves. Up to you.”

“I had a nose bleed,” I replied, grinning freely. May as well have a little fun with this. “I just stuck a cup under it. That’s it.”

“So you have a nose bleed every day? Take your clothes off.”

I removed my clothes down to my underwear.

“The shorts too smartass.”

I stood naked, as they both looked over my body. They checked behind my ears, had me open my mouth. No bleeding. They had me lift up my balls, then turn around and bend over. No marks, no bleeding.

“Come on Veinotte! Just tell us where you are getting the fucking blood.”

“Nosebleeds.”

“Get the fuck back to your cell. And the next time I see a red cross on your wall you are coming back down here but not just for a visit. Got that?”

“Yup.” I said and quickly dressed and headed back to the wing. Just standing down here gave me the creeps. There was someone about this area of the pen that just felt bad. Evil.

Once I was back in my cell I tore the cover off of a note pad. Using a razor blade I cut it into the shape of a cross and stuck it to the wall (upside down of course) using toothpaste as the adhesive. Then I picked up my soup spoon and the razor blade, stuck my tongue out and nicked the end of it with the blade, holding the spoon under it to catch the blood. When the spoon was about half full I laid it down carefully, and proceeded to paint the cross red using a mangled piece of a coffee stick.

The tongue bleeds very nicely and heals nearly instantly. Had you looked at my tongue five minutes later you would not have been able to find the cut.

The painted cross was just one part of my ‘crazy’ act. By now I had satanic tattoos on my body such as “Satan Rules” on my arm, “Hell Awaits” on my chest complete with an upside down cross and what was supposed to be a grim reaper on my left shoulder that ended up looking more like a cartoon banana. I had learned by now the crazier the other inmates thought I was, the better off I was.

My favorite response to questions had become “Cause Satan said so.” Did I believe in Satan? No. I really didn’t think I believed there was a God either, and if there was I figured he owed me a minute of his time so we could talk about a few things. But the satanic act served it’s purpose. “That’s Veinotte. He’s okay, just a little nuts. Just leave him alone.”

One twisted trick I developed still gives me chills when I think about it today: I would walk around with a razor blade in my mouth, flipping it end over end with my tongue. This was always an unused, brand new (dare I say razor sharp?) blade and I would walk around the jail with this thing in my mouth, flipping it over and over so everyone could see it. Worse than this though, and the part that gives me the creeps, is that I would snap a blade in half, pop one half into my mouth and pretend to swallow it. I would open my mouth and lift my tongue, proving that is was gone and guys would freak out. “You’re going to die!” they would say. “Open your mouth again!” I would, they saw no sign of the blade and would tell me to go to the doctor’s office, that I was going to bleed to death inside. I had to get to the hospital!

The half blade would be tucked in between my cheek and my gums, sharp side down. “I’m not going to die. Satan is looking after me!” I would say, then walk away. I would later fish the blade out of my mouth with my tongue.

I pulled this stunt dozens of times without ever cutting myself. Never did anyone ever not believe that I had swallowed it, and it did not take long for the word to spread that I was totally nuts. I was fifteen years old and in the pen, but people left me alone.

Well, for the most part.

It was all in fun at first and it didn’t really hurt: Two guys held from behind, and Dave was teasing me, tapping me in the chest with his fists, tapping my face with his hands. “Whatcha gonna do now, tough guy?” he would say and jab me some more. Things were fine… until I hissed at him. I just looked into his eyes with as much rage and hate as I suddenly felt, and hissed like a snake.

I saw the fist coming and then I saw the camera flash. Boom! That bright flash of light and my body crumpling. The guys who were holding me let go and I fell to my knees, blood gushing out of my head. My eyebrow was cut and bleeding like a son-of-a-bitch.

I staggered to my feet, my hand on my eye trying to contain the blood. “What the fuck did you do that for?” I spat. “What’s your fucking problem?”

“I thought you were freaking out. It looked like you were going crazy man!” Dave replied. He was in his early twenties and weighed about two-twenty and, as I had just found out, he held a lot of juice in his right jab.

“You’re a fucking idiot!” I said, heading to my cell. “Someone get the blood off the fucking floor before the screws see it.”

I cleaned myself up and repeatedly splashed cold water on my eye. It kept bleeding and I was scared – it was soon count time and the screws could not see me like this. I had to get it stopped.

I did, barely, and avoided looking towards the guards when count time came. Once they were gone I sat staring at the television for a long time, trying to calm down. The rage boiling up inside me was frightening. My body was shaking, I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, and then I could not hold it anymore. Dave was sitting at the other table, still trying to tell me that he didn’t mean it, that he thought I had snapped. Never quite “I’m sorry” but that he didn’t mean it.

I jumped up and grabbed the crib board off of the table. He was not looking, in fact had his head turned toward the gate. I lunged toward him, swinging the crib board overhand, edge first toward his head. He turned just in time and instead of hitting him in the head with the edge of the board, it glanced off of his shoulder. Suddenly there were arms around me and I thought for sure that this would be one hell of a beating. Instead, Dave, a look of utter shock on his face, said “What the fuck are you doing Veinotte? I said I didn’t mean to do it.”

I expected him to punch me, not question me.

“Can’t we just forget about it?” he continued. They guys were still holding my arms, not saying a word, just holding me.

“Sure,” I said, “but know this – if you ever lay a fucking hand on me again I will cut your throat in your sleep. Got it?”

“Yeah whatever. Let him go. This is all bullshit.” Dave replied.

And that was the end of it. There was no more playing around. My eye was bleeding again so I headed back to my cell to fix it.

 I still wear the scar in my eyebrow, some thirty years later.