How to disappear completely: Elijah Colver

[physiognomy]

There was once a boy named Elijah who's parents built a path for him, and he knew nothing else but to walk down it.




Mr. Colver, by profession, worked for the California state police. He was young, but had earned varying amounts of respect from his peers for being good at what he did, especially since it was no secret that he didn't want to do it. His parents were jewish (though Elijah was not) and carved their son's pre-destined path knowing how well he would turn out. Sure, he turned out well.

Elijah should have been a poet.
He should have been a writer.
He had pianist's fingers.
He had an artist's eyes.


But he was a good boy. And nothing would change that. Twenty-four years old and leading on the path to lead him nowhere.




( He doesn't have a screen name yet, BUT! I'm looking for SLs. You can IM me at Stop this worId. )

[physiognomy]

I've been at this for a long time, but I won't ever get used to it. The people I work with, the idiots I arrest, the citizens I help; they are all like blurs along the side of the road which I'm driving past at ninety miles an hour. There's no point in stopping to see and hear anymore. I don't talk to my parents about it, and they love me for it. They love me for my obedience, however blind and loving they think it is. I wish I could be grateful, but I simply do not belong here. I look down at my shoes and I think they aren't mine. I lay down on my bed and feel like I am in someone else's. I sense my own heartbeat as if through a stethoscope.

I wish someone could tell me what exactly I am doing here and how I got here.

The people I work with, they go to bars every night. They flash their badges and women buy them drinks. They have families, but they have sex with a different woman every few days. I hear them talking on the phone with their wives with faux exhaustion and telling them it's going to be another late night. They leave five minutes later. I never say anything. Sometimes they invite me to go with them. They say I'm young, that I need to live while I can. I just smile and they move on. It's easy to smile now.

I like talking to criminals. I like talking to homeless people. Sometimes, if the beat is slow, I will sit on a park bench with the old man and his dog and buy him a hot dog from the stand so he will tell me his story. They have interesting stories -- they're real people. Criminals are interesting too. After they stop being angry, they like to talk, about anything. If they get released later, sometimes I see them on the street and they smile at me, sometimes they buy me coffee. The old man with the dog came to the office one time and brought me feathers; my co-workers wanted to lock him up, thoguht that he was crazy. They tried to push him around. I had to tell them that he was my father for them to go back cheating on their wives.

That's the way it always goes. Something different happens; we ignore it. And then repeat ourselves. Again, again, and again. I wish I could show them that life is more then that. I wish I could remember.

[physiognomy]

It's your own worst enemy
Ringing the bell on the door
And the person inside says nobody's home
So your own worst enemy peeks inside
And sees you softly weeping as some music fills the room

And the song they play
Is that guy with the messed up face
Going, precious and few are the moments that you
And your own worst enemy share

-- they might be giants





It had come to the point that whether it was busy or not, Elijah had no heart to continue. His head was ticking like a timebomb, just waiting for the right moment to explode; it had been waiting patiently for years, but the time was coming close. Slumped at his desk and too lost in thought to be filling out paperwork, he carved patterns into the wood of his desk. His eyes were half-lidded, dripping with exhaustion, and his pockets without feathers today. He only looked up when he saw the hulking figure of Rausch in front of his desk.

Rausch ran the station there and had been doing so for years, and though he was just as promiscious as his comrades, he also recognized when something was wrong. Elijah wasn't terribly fond of him -- he often came to work drunk or went into his office with a woman for 'interrogation' -- but he would admit that Rausch got the job done. He saw the balding man's lips tip into a frown as he spoke. "Hey, kid. You wanna step into my office for a sec? We need to have a chat."

"Okay." Elijah didn't pretend like he had been working and wasn't nervous -- his mind was too blank to be. Rausch lead them into his office, which was littered with papers and photos of both family and file cases. Rausch made it a point to always look busy, even if he wasn't. Sitting down in the chair opposite of his desk, Rausch spoke as he picked through files. "You haven't been actin' like yourself, kid. You been slowin' down, not on the beat so much. It happens to everyone. Everyone who starts goes through this kinda shit, and then they get back on track. So I tell you what, kid, I'll tell you what. You take the next week off, paid vacation. We'll call that Shepard guy in. Relax, stop thinking so much, go hit a bar, get drunk, fuck. S'like spring break. Alright?"

Elijah was quiet for a long moment, though he was not so empty as to not keep his gaze firmly locked on the older man. What else was he supposed to do? He didn't want to go back. He wanted to clear out his locker, turn in his badge, and tell them just how fucked up they were. But instead, he just nodded. "Yeah. Alright."

"You're a good kid, Colver." Clapping the young officer on the shoulder, he shooed him toward the door. "I'll see you in a week, yeah? Keep your nose clean."

"Yeah. Bye, Chief." Ushered out the door, which was shut behind him, Elijah sighed softly and took a slow shuffle towards his desk. He remembered what Benton said. He remembered the feeling of words being able to spill from his fingertips like a fountain. He remembered the sound of the piano. And slowly, he left his belt and badge on his desk.


One week, he thought, one week.

<font color="#FF9933 " size="1">[ October 05, 2004 01:25 PM: Message edited by: destination moon ]</font>

[physiognomy]

I want to take you far away
from the cynics in this town
And kiss you on the mouth
We'll cut out bodies free
from the tethers of this scene,
Start a brand new colony
Where everything will change,
We'll give ourselves new names
(identities erased)
The sun will heat the grounds
Under our bare feet
in this brand new colony
Everything will change...

-- the postal service

[physiognomy]

elijah (shout shout) by virg<u>o</u>

part ii
He was a cop.
He worked the beat --
yeah. you know it.
He hated his job.
(but smiled:
it was a
jewish thing,
they assumed.)
then, one day, it all made sense:
"elijah,"
he said,
"pull the trigger, elijah."


---

"ELIJAH! PULL THE FUCKING TRIGGER!"

The young cop had been called in early and now he was stuck, stuck harder then he ever had been. The two gangs had stopped fighting eachother and were now joining forces to advance on Rausch and Elijah, taunting them. One had a gun, holding it cocked to the side and pointed at Rausch who was beginning to become frantic. Elijah was behind the cop car with his gun pointed at the latino, his hands shaking. Shoot him. Yes. Shoot him.


The bullet ran clear across the afternoon. The latino with the gun did not jump or even convulse, but just fell. The gangs, bewildered, began to scatter and in the brief glimpse of opportunity Rausch called back to the station to bring in the squad to cruise the area and catch those running. Still shaking, Elijah moved from behind the cop car to where Rausch was jogging to the now fallen gunner. The younger cop moved in closer, looking over the chief's shoulder where he paled. "Oh.. oh shit. Oh fuck."


I killed him.

[physiognomy]

They wanted me to become a cop because their first son had been shot. This was their revenge. The only reason I know is because I heard her crying in the other room when I was young, crying to God and yelling at him for taking her son away. It took awhile for it all to sink in, but it did. I never let on that I knew, I never went against there wishes. Why should I?


I see now. I understand.


I called her today, and told her I had quit my job and that I was done with being a cop. I told her what happened. I couldn't tell if she was more angry or disappointed. She put my father on the phone. He was just angry and bitter. At this point, I can only care so much. I don't know how to handle that, I don't even know if they love me anymore -- I hope the angry is just temporary. I love them, as flawed as they are.


I'm worried about Benton and it's hard not to be. I just wish I could show him how to take simple pleasure in things; that momentary happiness is what human kind thrives upon. It's easy for me to do it, because I've done it all my life, and I'm trying hard to show him, but I don't think it's working. I'm beginning to see that all I can do is wait and try to be there for him. Things will work out.


I know they will.

[physiognomy]

"Hi, Elijah! Umm, saw your mom yesterday, said you were having a hard time or something, so I thought I'd try to get a hold of you. Gimmie a call later, yeah? I'm gonna be in LA next week, so I thought we could get lunch or something. See you!"

The ex-cop slumped back against the couch as he listened to the message, Fate lumbering over toward him to rest his head on Elijah's thigh for scratches. He did so willingly, only frowning some after the message ended. He had known Samantha in highschool, but after he began training for the force, they had drifted out of contact. She was the classic girl next door, and she'd never leave their town -- their small, gossip driven town. Elijah was sure that even though he was miles away that he was now the talk of the week.

"I hate this," he commented idly to the sheperd who only nudged his muzzle into Elijah's hand. "I really do. And there's not a lot I hate. It's like I quit my job and the world is ending." Elijah had been unobtrusively looking for a new job between final paperwork at the station and keeping Benton's spirit up; or trying to, anyway. Whether he was successful was a completely different story, one that he was not sure of the answer to. But he tried and he was there, and really, what else could he do?

Elijah was hesitant to listen to the next message on the machine, but he finally gave in and pushed the play button, falling back against the couch again.

"Hello, this message is for Mr. Elijah Colver regarding his application to the Herald? We'd like you to come in for an interview as soon as tomorrow if you could please give us a call back, please. Just ask for Mr. TJ Ray -- hah, that's me, by the way. Have a good day."

Elijah blinked and remained in silence a moment before leaning and replying the message. After the fuzzed sound of TJ's voice faded again, a wide smile bloomed on the ex-cop's face. He had an interview. With The LA Herald. Tomorrow.


Things were abruptly looking upward and not even small town gossip could get him down off of cloud nine.