It might be something simple. It might seem unexpected. It might not happen at all.

Incidents large and small, symbolic or violent, are part of the job for the 231 employees at the new Maine State Prison in Warren.

Merely passing a bar of soap to an inmate or simply saying no to a request can make a casual exchange turn dangerous.

Such was the case for Corrections Officer Peggy Grotton, 24, on May 17 when she told an inmate he could not allow another prisoner to trim his hair.

In an instant, Grotton was attacked by the inmate, leaving her badly beaten with both eyes buttoned shut from bruising.

Grotton was able to activate her body alarm, and did all the right things. But prison officials have acknowledged recently that inmate-to-inmate assaults and inmate-to-guard assaults are on the rise.

Still, most days are relatively quiet as guards and prisoners go through the motions of life in a very closed world.

In between the “terrible days,” there are lots of good days, says Capt. Ron Spearing, 53.

“We are not knuckle-dragging goons that work here,” he said.

Being a guard at the state’s showplace prison means decent pay and benefits, and Spearing notes that an officer’s responsibilities include keeping the public safe, not just co-workers and prisoners.

Corrections Officer David Hardt, 56, came to the Maine State Prison in 1984. He has served as a deckhand and says working at sea is much more dangerous than working at the prison. He was drawn to the guard job for the pay and benefits, he said.

In two decades, Hardt said, he has been assaulted once “accidentally” when he was in the way of an inmate dispute. Another time, he had feces thrown at him as he was handing a prisoner a bar of soap. The unprovoked assault occurred because Hardt had written up the inmate two years earlier for making disparaging remarks about Hardt’s family.

Some of the inmates are “very likable,” Hardt said. “But they’re very dangerous when you tell them they can’t have something.”

Only once in Maine State Prison history has an inmate killed a prison employee: the warden.

In 1864, Warden Richard Tinker was stabbed from behind by inmate Francis Spencer, who in turn was hanged in the same spot where the warden died, in the old state prison in nearby Thomaston.

At the new Maine State Prison in Warren, the 224 men and seven women who serve as corrections officers watch over 891 male inmates.

One of the newest guards on the block, Sam Van Tuinen, never dreamed he would be a prison guard. He graduated from high school, earned his bachelor’s degree in business management from the University of Maine and was working at a restaurant in Augusta when his father-in-law, who works at the Central Maine Pre-Release Center in Hallowell, told him to give a prison job a try.

“It’s interesting, to say the least,” said Van Tuinen, 26, as he walked earlier this month through a 64-inmate “pod,” or area, checking on prisoners. It was only his third week on the job. Each pod has one guard on duty. The inmates are free to be out of their cells and in the pod’s common area during the day.

“If you respect them, they’ll give you some respect,” he said.

Van Tuinen was searching for a “solid job” with good benefits when he took the position.

The hardest part is getting used to 64 faces, he said, as he looked at the photographs taped to each two-man cell in the pod.

Guards must compare the pictures to the inmates inside each cell when checking to see that everyone is accounted for. Four counts are taken during the day to ensure no one is missing. Counts also take place throughout the night while the inmates are locked in their cells, Merrill said.

Inside the new prison, the housing units are designed as pods to allow guards to see nearly every nook and cranny from a monitoring desk. The guard controls lights and doors from a control board at the desk.

Inside the pods, one guard stands watch over as many as 64 inmates – a situation that could be improved with additional staff, guards said in recent interviews.

As Van Tuinen walked the two-tiered pod checking cells, those inmates who were in the day room area chatted on pay phones, watched television, played cards or did laundry.

One thing Van Tuinen learned quickly is to be consistent with inmates or the “guys will play you all the time. They try everything, especially when you’re brand new.”

As head of the food service department, Spencer Smith works closely with inmates who prepare some 3,000 meals served daily. Smith, 57, came to work at the prison 17 years ago, after owning a Houlton restaurant. He wanted a steady job with decent pay.

Smith likes working at the prison.

During his tenure, Smith has never been assaulted, he said, but nearly a decade ago, he was just 10 feet from an inmate who was stabbed with a 12-inch blade. Nowadays, most kitchen knives are tethered to work counters, he said.

As a safety measure, guards inside the facility do not carry weapons, with the exception of Mace, a chemical compound, which is in containers strapped to their waist belts along with rubber gloves, handcuffs and communication radios. The guards also have a body alarm attached to their uniforms, the kind Officer Grotton activated when she was attacked.

But the best weapon in keeping the peace is maintaining a measure of respect for the inmates, said Sgt. Marlene “Molly” Brown. “Respect’s a two-way street.”

It takes a special type of person to work day after day in a prison’s close quarters, be it a guard, a social worker, a cook or any other person within the facility who has close contact with inmates.

“Personally, I’m more concerned about hepatitis B,” said Polly Black, 57, who is principal of the prison’s education programs.

Prison workers are continually at risk of exposure to disease while at work. The employees do not know which infectious diseases an inmate might have, Capt. Spearing said.

An assault against a guard need not be physical. Spitting or throwing feces or urine at a corrections officer also is considered assault.

Disease protection is the main reason guards carry a pouch of rubber gloves as part of their uniforms, and they receive a series of hepatitis shots. Workers also are trained for universal precautions in dealing with diseases, Spearing said.

As for being a female guard in an all-male prison, Sgt. Brown pointed out that there are plenty of men working in all-women prisons, such as the Southern Nevada Women’s Correctional Facility in Las Vegas, where she worked for six years. She also worked for two years at a federal prison while serving in the U.S. Air Force.

Most prospective guards are attracted to the job by the pay and benefits, according to Warden Jeffrey Merrill.

Starting pay is $12.49 per hour, plus shift differentials. The pay scale for guards tops out at $15.50 per hour.

On top of pay, benefits include full employer-paid health and dental insurance valued at roughly $265 biweekly; 60 percent paid dependent insurance; and a retirement plan paid nearly 100 percent by the state.

Free training, 12 paid holidays, vacation, overtime pay, free meals and advancement opportunities are some of the other perks. The state pays $25 million annually in salaries at the Maine State Prison and the nearby Bolduc Correctional Facility, Merrill noted.

A person has to be at least 18 to work as a guard and should not have a serious criminal or motor vehicle record. A high school diploma or its equivalent is required as well as a valid Maine driver’s license.

If selected as a potential candidate, a person must pass written and physical examinations and a one-on-one interview with the deputy warden. A person also must complete six weeks of training, which includes one week at the Maine Criminal Justice Academy in Vassalboro.

In previous years, job candidates had to stand before a panel of prison officials for an oral examination, which some of the guards think was a better system for weeding out people who are unsuitable for the job.

Capt. Spearing recalled the case of a prospective guard who was asked what he would do if asked to read a letter to an inmate. The candidate lunged across the panel table and said, “What do I look like, a mailman, to you?” Spearing said. He failed to get the job.

“The real test is when they get on the job,” Merrill said.

Several of the guards and even the warden say that the 18-year-old age requirement is too young.

If the age were increased, however, “we wouldn’t get help,” Brown said. The average age of second shift guards is 19 to 25, she noted.

Guards who work first shift, from 6 a.m. to 2:30 p.m., have the most seniority and thus are older and more experienced. Usually 63 of the 85 first-shift corrections officers are on duty at one time. Second shift, which runs from 1:30 p.m. to 10 p.m., has a pool of 65 guards. Of those, generally 52 work a shift.

When the prison is locked down for the night, 22 third-shift guards watch over inmates. There are 45 guards to draw from for this 9 p.m. to 7:36 a.m. shift.

The corrections officers say more staffing per pod would be ideal, but acknowledge the reality of the state budget.

Merrill points out that backing up the one pod guard is a camera monitoring system that serves as a second pair of eyes, and there are “roaming” guards and supervisors close at hand.

Officer Hardt’s philosophy is to try not to judge an inmate by the actions that put him behind bars, but rather to treat him according to his behavior while in prison.

Indeed, in training to be a guard, corrections officers are taught to show confidence in their work. Guards should not show fear even if they are afraid, Sgt. Brown said.

“If you show it, they’ve got you,” she said.

Brown, 37, a Maine State Prison guard for three years, said the attack on Grotton last month was a “freak type of thing.”

“I’d rather have a black eye than have crap thrown on me,” Brown said. “This is one of the safest prisons in the country,” she added.