"Twelve!" I yell instinctively, like a wolf who can’t help from howling at a full moon. "Twelve! Twelve!" The sound of my alarm is carried throughout the unit, quickly traveling all three hallways and across the other day room to let everyone know that a correctional officer is about to step out of the control booth and walk the floor. I’m reminded of prairie dogs who always have security to yelp when an intruder or predator wanders by. The critters mimic the sound to make sure everyone is on point, and in this environment, like on the prairie, having a watchful eye is a must.
The floor officer is putting on his hat when I send out the warning, a clear “tell” for when he comes into the unit. When he walks out, you can hear a loud thud from the first automatic lock opening, followed by an even louder thud from a second lock leading to our unit. The officer walks through doors reinforced with both glass and steel, swinging them wide open so that they close behind him with a loud slam. The closing door is so loud I can always hear it from inside my cell, but right now I'm in the day room with my back to a wall, sitting on a gray plastic chair. In front of me is a table where I have my oil paints, brushes, and a homemade easel. I’m working on a commissioned portrait with a clear view of the entranceway.
The officer walks towards the day room gallery, swiveling his head and taking in as much information as he can. He sees the same thing every time he steps into the unit: people supporting the walls with their backs as they are in their own little worlds, listening to music or sending out messages through their tablets, playing chess or card games, watching the flat screen mounted on the wall, or huddled up next to one of the four phones, safeguarding their spot so they can call outside. No one seems out of place to the officer as he passes the two washing and drying machines and continues towards the hallway gallery where I lose sight of him.
Even though I can't see his movement from the day room, I know his routine. In the hallway he'll pass by the first two cells and look through a rectangular window that's five inches wide and 20 inches tall, without breaking his stride. He'll then pass four single showers, three right next to each other and one on the opposite wall with a brown plastic curtain for privacy. He'll then make a left turn down the gallery, where there are 27 cells. He'll have to maneuver through the usual crowd of men weightlifting laundry bags filled with water bottles, and men getting their hair cut in plastic chairs as if they were in a barber shop and not a noisy hallway. He'll do the same routine in the other day room and two other galleries. The remaining officer in the control booth has her eyes on the monitor, watching the floor officer's every step through 16 strategically placed cameras mounted on the ceiling.
As the officer continues his walk through the floor, I get back to my painting, losing myself from the environment. I'm mixing a little ultramarine blue into a flesh tone when I'm snapped out of my zone by the two thuds from the automatic locks, followed by the sound of doors slamming shut as the officer walks back into the control booth. I see him remove his hat, placing it on a hook and sitting down with nothing else to do for the next two hours. As for me, I'll be right here finishing up my portrait, on point for when I see him reaching for his hat again, ready to yell out, "Twelve!"
