sub·lime
/səˈblīm/
adjective
❝ of such excellence, grandeur, or beauty as to inspire great admiration or awe ❞
The year was 1987, and delinquency was all the rage. For high school senior Sydney O'Connell, however, it was more of a lifestyle. Being a...
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The old man behind the front counter had been eyeing Sydney O'Connell since the moment his muddy converse crossed the threshold of Rudy's Music Utopia.
And guessing by the name scribbled onto the old man's name tag, he was Rudy.
If anything Sydney was well accustomed to the hard stares and general gossip that shadowed his every move in any establishment around Seattle. After all, he did look the part.
Dressed head to toe in rock n' roll, a messy mop of dark curls on top his head, and a good for nothing smirk will have that affect on people. And not to forget the long scar that started above the arch of his brow and ended where his cheekbones began. Yep, your typical teenage dirtbag.
Just as Sydney was about to pick up the latest Smiths album just to toy with the man, there was a very specific tap on the store front window. Dark brown eyes trailed up to meet those of a pale scrawny kid with a bright blue mohawk. He waved him over with the arm that sat inside a thick white cast.
Pursing his lips, Sydney mentally noted to return for the record later and left the musky room to meet with his drug dealer.
The cold, Seattle air bit at Sydney's face as he followed the punk into an alleyway.
"How're the 'rents?" He asked, through trembling lips.
The boy, Ricky, turned with his backpack to his stomach, shrugging.
"Oh you know, same ol' same ol'. Still hounding me about the importance of staying out of trouble." He said, nonchalantly. "Think it's best they don't know I deal, am I right?"
Sydney cracked a half smile, shaking his head. He didn't have that problem because he didn't have parents who gave a shit about him, unlike Ricky.
"Yeah. If they freaked out big time about you breaking your wrist I can't imagine the shit you'd be in if they ever found out."
Ricky gave a nervous laugh but otherwise unzipped his bag and pulled out an old metal mint case that held plenty of pre-rolled joints. Sydney rubbed his hands together in both anticipation and for friction.
"How many do you want, Syd?"
Sydney held up three fingers and handed him a five.
Ricky shoved the bill into his jean pocket and swung his bag back behind him. His beady eyes scanned the area for anything out of the ordinary before jutting out his chin.
"Same time next week?"
Sydney wedged one of the joints behind his ear and clicked his tongue.
He had initially met Ricky last year behind the bleachers when they were both supposed to be in gym class. And although Sydney never liked to make friends due to the fact that he never knew how long he'd last in one place, Ricky was an exception. Sure he sold him dope well below it's price, but in the end they were both just a couple of punks looking to belong.
"Sure. We'll probably have to meet up at the arcade though. I'm thinking of coming back tomorrow and taking some records off old man Rudy's hands, if you know what I mean."
Ricky snickered and clasped Sydney's shoulder, "Alright, Syd. I've got to motor if I'm going to make it home before ten."
Nodding, Sydney waved off his friend and watched his shock of blue hair disappear into the night.
Not caring about his own curfew, Sydney decided to hang around for a bit longer and get his five bucks worth. Propping himself against the wet bricks, he took the joint from behind his ear and lit it, taking a long and steady drag.
The constant dance of rain drowned out the outside world as he exhaled, watching the smoke dissipate before his eyes. In truth he didn't even need to smoke, it was more of a political statement than anything. He was sick and tired of the foster system, of the expectations and the assumptions.
Sydney lolled his head along the wall behind him and laughed a throaty laugh, feeling the effects of the drug in his system. Suddenly his troubles seemed silly and mundane. Hell, he couldn't even remember how his real parents liked like anymore. It had been that long ago.
A shout was suddenly heard in the distance, cutting through the momentary peace. Sydney's head snapped in its direction to see a police cruiser blocking the entrance of the alleyway.
Muttering profanities under his breath, Sydney dropped the joint and made a run for it in the opposite direction of the cop who'd been closing in on him.
The cop shouted at him to stop, but every nerve in Sydney's body told him to run faster and faster. The last thing he needed to add to his record was a drug possession charge.
His feet thundered along the industrial labyrinth, following every turn at random. Maybe it was the drugs or the adrenaline, but Sydney could hear the cops boots growing fainter and fainter with each passing moment. Throwing down a couple of garbage cans in his wake, Sydney finally looked over his shoulder to confirm that he had lost the policeman along the way.
Slowing for a brief moment, feeling the blood pumping through his ears, Sydney came across a dead end.
Letting out a frustrated growl, he pounded his fists against the building. It didn't matter now if he had lost the cop, for it was only a matter of time before he caught up to him. And that could not happen.
His bloodshot eyes scanned every possible outing around him, looking for any glimpse of hope for an escape. It was only when the sounds of footsteps came back into earshot that he saw it; a ladder.
Without a second thought, Sydney made a run for the dumpster and managed to get on top. Now there was shouting again, but Sydney reached for the metal bars and climbed blindly against the rain and onto a roof top.
The sound of a gunshot followed suit and Sydney dropped to the ground, the gravel stinging though his torn jeans. Although the bullet was no where near him, the fact that he had opened fire at him scared the shit out of Sydney. Suddenly it all felt real and sober.
Staring to now feel the panic rising within him, Sydney got to his feet and scrambled for the ledge, straining his eyes to see what he was hoping for: an open dumpster. Although he couldn't exactly see if there was any garbage inside it or not, he didn't have the time or luxury as his worst fears became a reality.
The cop stood with his legs apart and his gun raised at the other end of the rooftop.
"Freeze! And put your hands up where I can see them, punk!"
Over my dead body, Sydney thought with a smirk.
With one last glance at the bottom and hoping for whatever higher power to watch over him, Sydney lifted his hands and tipped backwards- free-falling into the haze below.
