The voices of close to 200 prisoners saturate every inch of the building, at times seeming like a distant hum. Occasionally, individual voices could be distinguished – an argument over the affections of a woman, or the wailing of a mentally disturbed inmate, housed in an eight by four foot room. There is a dankness in the air, as the moisture of the facility showers mingled with the humidity of a warm summer evening.

I can remember when I used to spend Saturday nights going out with friends or family. That seemed so long ago. Now I’m stuck here, babysitting the misfits of society, or at least the ones who were caught. Even going out had lost its appeal, as it was almost inevitable that I would run into an ex-inmate wherever I went, and the possibility of an altercation was ever present.

So here I sit, outside the cell door of a highly suicidal prisoner, recording every move and statement he makes, in an effort to keep him from taking his own life while incarcerated. It seems ironic that society would spend so much time and money to make sure this individual would be cared for while in jail, yet, upon his release, he would continue on with the lifestyle that eventually would take his life.

I take another sip of my lukewarm coffee, in a feeble attempt to keep my mind alert on this long nightshift. Other staff are attending to their duties, and I occasionally see them pass by me in the hall. It makes me wonder, if somewhere, in another jail, in another part of the world, a correctional officer like me is sitting at work wondering about his place in the cosmos.

My prisoner stirs, and stumbles to the flap in the cell door, asking me for some toilet paper so that he can go about his business. Sigh, another job for the highly skilled officer.

How did I end up here? Is this what my life has come to? Eighteen years have passed since I worked my first shift here – never thinking that this would become my career, dousing the spark of hope I once had.

Prisoners come and go, and most come back again and again. It seems like a never-ending loop, making me question the purpose of being here.

The buzzing of human voices begins to fade, as the lights and TV’s are turned off, and the inmates settle in for the night. Even my suicidal charge snores peacefully on his steel and cement bed. The footsteps of patrol boots can be heard echoing in the hallway, as other officers perform their nightshift rounds, constantly checking and counting each prisoner.  I glance at my watch hoping that time has not been moving as slow as it feels – however, it has, and I won’t be relieved for some time yet. I can’t even bring myself to read the book I brought to pass the time…

6:30 a.m. finally arrives, and I am relieved of my post by another officer, who will have to endure the same monotony that I did for the last 12 hours. I am too numb to even feel sorry for him. I stagger like a seasoned wino through the maze of security doors that separate this cesspool from the world outside, and the fresh air strikes me like a slap in the face. I inhale several deep breaths of the morning air, and begin to wake up for the ride home. The sun is just rising over the roofs of the converted two story houses across the street, resembling an egg – sunny side up. The robins are chattering noisily as they harvest the morning dew worms. A smile wells up inside me as I walk to my car, and shake off the invisible weight of my job. Twelve hours of freedom before I have to come back and do it all again.

The clerk at the convenience store notices my uniform, and smiles at me as I pick up a newspaper to read when I get home. I’m thinking, “She probably thinks I’m a police officer” otherwise she would treat me with the same disdain as most of the other early morning customers. I guess it’s better to be treated with respect even if it is misplaced than to be ignored.

I silently slide my key in the lock, trying not to wake up my wife and kids as I get home, but there’s no fooling our two dogs. They run to greet me at the door, Taylor wagging her tail while presenting me with her chewing rope. They follow me into the bedroom, as I remove my security equipment, and peel off the layers of my uniform. My wife is dozing soundly, lying diagonally across the bed. I slip into my favorite hospital scrub pants and t-shirt, and plop down on the couch in the living room to read my paper, and watch the news on TV.