I spent four years working in a correctional facility, where the job was not only difficult while I was punched-in, but weighed on me when I punched-out. Some days—most, actually—were mirrors of the day before. Sometimes I had the exact conversations with co-workers. Muster notes were verbatim, I would trace over yesterday’s words. The walls were always bare, paint chipped in the same spots, torn books piled in the same corner of the handicap shower; I served bagged lunches of sweaty bologna sandwiches and rotten apples, too-warm milk, every day at 1100 hours. Inmates in orange jumpsuits passed my officer station, nodded; they were cordial and asked about my day. “Same as yesterday,” I’d say. And they’d begrudgingly agree. Sometimes, I hoped for sudden violence or a personal threat to animate my day. That boredom of sameness can be worse than a shitstorm of a shift.
