I am going to hit the water soon. My stomach is a five-legged animal trying to crawl up my esophagus. The rest of my body is a lump of flesh continuously pulled downwards as if by a million strings. The beast inside is releasing all kinds of hormones. Pumping energy that has no way to escape into my system as my mind orbits the inevitable. Up on the bridge, the piano tune hasn’t disappeared. The piano man didn't see my fall so he keeps playing. The people walking by can’t see me so they keep walking. Endlessly. At least, that’s what I assume, I don’t know for sure – can’t know for sure what’s happening up there. What I know though is that the water is coming closer and closer. Well, I am coming closer to the water. It’s the only thing I can see. Stare at.  
They always say that you’re weightless when you fall. But you’re not. Your weight, the mass of your body, doesn’t change. Just everything around you. The floor under your feet is suddenly gone. The air around you – that has nourished your lungs so far – becomes a hostile torrent reminding you of the everlasting forces around, lying dormant at most times, but never losing their true destructive energy. I’ve never truly felt better proof of my own bodily weight than now. The feeling of being pulled down against the increasingly violent wind is overwhelming me, it’s irresistible. Nothing compares to this gravity. 
“But what the actual f*** happened?” The question demands investigation. The fact that my brain demands anything in this situation is fatal proof of its lack of understanding. At this very moment, control lays elsewhere. My brain, my mind, is just a lump of flesh inside a bigger lump of flesh. Falling.  
The brush against my shoulder that made me trip and lose my footing doesn’t matter one bit anymore. I can’t turn back time. What matters now is that I inhale, as much as possible. I hit my left arm on something hard. The shock runs through my body. I’m squeezing my eyes shut even tighter now.  
The water is cool but the temperature doesn’t bother me as much as the sluggish reactions of my limbs. Especially my left arm doesn’t move the way I want it to. My clothes offer more resistance swimming than I thought. I think of quickly slipping out of my overcoat but decide against it. I need what’s inside: the wallet, keys, my phone. Maybe not the phone anymore. 
As I surface, I look up at Warhol bridge. It doesn’t look nearly as high anymore as it did from up there. I then inspect my left arm. It’s swimming next to me in the water. I think it was ripped out of its shoulder socket on impact.  
I wonder why I’m still alive. And how a dislocated shoulder should be fixed?  
The water is actually freezing. I try to make my way to the nearest shore. Using both legs and my functioning arm – the other one is trailing behind. At shore, I realize that, as expected, my phone is dead. I check the other pockets but can't find my wallet. I check and doublecheck but nothing. F***. My wallet must be in the river. Or it was taken from me on the bridge. Maybe the reason why I’m suffering right now was the sorry excuse of an empty wallet that had been in my coat pocket until it’s been lost. But a burglary scheme that would attract this much attention?  
Well, without a wallet, I can forget about getting dry clothes in the city. Good thing Sammy works at a place nearby. I could go there, have him drive me home – get me something to wear... They also sell phones. 
Wanting to take off my sticky, cold, heavy coat – cursing that I didn’t when I had the chance and a good reason earlier – I don’t do it. Partly because the thought of the stiff wind hitting my bare wet arms keeps me from it; partly because I feel like my arm might fall off if I did. Maybe it’s worse than a dislocated shoulder, my arm only still attached to my body because it’s held there by the sticky fabric of my coat. Can’t risk finding out until I reach Sammy’s workplace.  
Down 7th Street, I cross Wood Street into 5th Avenue to land in Smithfield Street where Sammy works at an electronics store. A place he calls, “more frontend convenience than machine art”. He hates the concept of selling out. But every store needs to make a profit. Here’s my best friend, his shaggy hair showing above the aisles, ducking periodically to restock or hide from something.  
“Noah?” Then quieter, “what the f, man?” He pronounces the letter “F” instead of saying fuck inside the customer area. A true professional.  
“Hey, Daniel. How’s your day?” 
Staring me down, he goes for, “did you fall off a bridge or what?” 
“Yeah.” 
“Yeah what?” 
“Yes, I did.” 
He doesn’t know what to say.  
“Yes, I fell off Warhol.”  
“Okay, wow dude, wait, what – hold up. How? What happened?” 
“I don’t know, man. I remember some guy stumbling and falling my way, then I hit someone and the next thing I know I’m wet as fuck, cold, at shore, dead phone and my wallet is gone.” 
“Jesus.” He pauses. “Fuck.”  
“Yeah.”  
My coat is dripping dirty water on the tiled floor. I’m standing in a puddle of grey.  
Sammy keeps staring at me. I assume he’s waiting for me to say something. Elaborate.  
“And my arm is fucked.” 
“Looks fine to me.” He touches my right shoulder.  
“The other one. I hit the water with it. I think it was ripped out of its socket when I hit the river.” 
I pause for dramatic effect. I don’t know why I’m pausing, really, when I think about it, because what I’m saying is dramatic enough to begin with.  
“You know how to fix my arm?”  
“Dude, do you think I would be working here if I knew stuff like that? Let me google it.”  
While he’s on his phone, I think about what I should say next.  
He’s looking at my shoulder – the left one now – and then back to his phone. Up again and back to his screen. I think he’s thinking about if he should really try to do what it says on his screen or let someone else try it.  
“We should... Man, you should see a doctor immediately. I don’t want to make it worse.”  
“Yeah, well, help me out here. I need you to drive me home for a change of clothes. And then to the hospital.” 
He looks uneasy and hesitant. 
“Man, I wish I could but, you know, I’m on the clock right now. And my, let’s say, diplomatic relations with the boss are a bit… shaky right now.”  
I think he’s still thinking about my shoulder situation; I will need to step it up. I will need to convince him with this one or I won’t get another chance.  
“Do I need to get the notorious Oliver Owen to do it for me?” 
“Oh god, Noah, please… right now?” 
“Who’s this Noah guy? The name’s Oliver, Oliver Owen. Don't you know this face, boy?” 
Daniel looks up like he’s about to say a prayer but he’s trying to suppress a wide grin.  
He goes “Maaan, I don’t knoooow…” 
“Man, I don’t knoooooOoow,” I’m aping him.  
“Oh no! I, Sammy Goswill, can feel the emotivational power of the infamous Oliver Owen working on me!” 
“Now, will you do as my power commands?” 
He deadpans me, then turns 180° and walks straight into the staff only area. I would feel bad if he lost his job because of me, but I can’t help it in this situation. The lack of air circulation and the heat of the AC in the store have warmed my clothes a little. Still, my fingers are harder than usual to move and give off a funny tingle when I do. I’m scared of moving the fingers attached to my left arm.  
“Frontend convenient,” I think about the phrase. I’ve come to find the convenience of some stores off-putting. No room for human leisure. In-and-out. Planning your next stop while stepping into the store. Why can’t every place also offer you coffee, a seat? A sense of appreciation for your personhood – beyond your state of customer. Car dealerships do!  
But there, the dealings are more substantial, take time. The leisure is necessary. Most “convenient” places don’t even have a toilet you could go to if you needed to. Can’t even blow your nose as they don’t have waste baskets.  
Electronics stores like the one Sammy works at seem to be afflicted by this phenomenon the worst. It’s like the techies forgot who or what they are creating their gadgets for. “Frontend convenient”, convenience is speed. It’s all signal and transmission and zero decoration. Raw nerve. Beauty here exists only in the efficiency of the system to deliver whatever is deemed necessary, not in an inherently aesthetic quality, whatever that means.  
My thoughts rage on, as Sammy hands me painkillers and ice.  
“You should take some painkillers. Decide yourself how many you need.” 
I chuck a bunch of them.  
“You need to lay down now and let me move your arm. I will pull it so it snaps back into its socket. That’s what it said on the wikihow page. Now’s your last chance to chicken out or tell me a hospital would be a better idea.”  
“Have at it. I’m Oliver Owen. Nothing scares me.”  
A wave of confidence washes over Sammy’s face, as I brace my whole body for pain.  
As I close my eyes, I try to escape the world into my thoughts. I wish Sammy would have offered me something to bite on. Or a coffee, for that matter. But maybe this shop is the perfect place to have your best friend pull on your arm to make it snap back into its intended position. I’m orbiting the conviction that Sammy is the best man to heal my arm in my thoughts. His physical appearance, in my mind’s eye, morphs into that of a spiritual shaman, able to heal and mend all ills.  
“Pull, Sammy. Fix my arm.”  
I would like to think that my thoughts have the force to change the world. At least, for a little. Mend it to some degree. Thoughts leak the truth back into the world. We observe the world with our eyes, feed back our perspective to our brain. Why should it be a one-way street? I need to focus. Sammy is a shaman. No one in this world knows how to mend a dislocated shoulder better than Sammy. Why do we call it a dislocated shoulder anyway? My shoulder hasn’t changed. The socket is still there. My shoulder blades feel awkwardly light – there is less weight attached to them. The truth is, my arm is dislocated. The joint of my upper arm is dislocated, slipped out of its designated space. That’s the truth of the matter.  
He isn’t pulling. Shed your reservations and do it. I would scream, “just do it!” But I don’t want to make Sammy laugh. I bet he feels stressed enough in this situation. I need to focus again. No room for negative thoughts. To me, Sammy is a god right now. At least to my mind. In my mind. The world is a canvas of contradiction, is what I like to think. And these contradictions can go either way. At all times. There is a tension between A and B and at all times A might win out against B or the other way around. That’s what happens to create the future. The future is struggle. We, as humans, are nourished from this struggle. We drink knowledge from the paradoxes of the universe to brace ourselves for the future. And the future is struggle. But in this moment, one person on earth has stopped being part of this struggle. Because Sammy is not a human – subject to the eternal struggle between contradictions in this universe – but a literal god. Who will fix my dislocated shoulder.  
It’s all negative and positive forces. He’s finally grabbed my wrist. And these forces cancel each other out. Yet they seem to co-exist. A contradiction. A balance. Equal amounts positive energy, equal amounts negative energy. Otherwise, one would swallow the other. And by human intervention, one ends up swallowing the other. The same way my shoulder will end up swallowing my arm again. This is how things exist: In contradiction, beyond any reason. All anyone can do is push for an outcome. Will it into existence. Make two parallel lines opposing each other converge – force their meeting point. Conflict. Resolution.  
During confrontations, do we ever know what consequences are awaiting us? No, we act and live with the fruits of our decisions. The fruits of Sammy’s intervention will be a perfectly healthy left arm. I know it. My whole body is starting to feel different. Alien. Connective tissue below my skin is liquified. Swimming in a pool of sweat and blood. My cells are freed from restraints. Re-arranging. Compounds splitting up into molecules; molecules becoming atoms again. Previously trapped in fixed arrangements, now free. You got this, Sammy.  
Eyes closed, I see Sammy’s face next to me. As through a double-paneled window. Sweating; red. He’s getting ready for the final pull. My body is pushing beyond its boundaries. I feel the warmth of his hands on my wrist and hand. His legs on top of my torso. The shaman exert his own life force to mend my dislocated shoulder. He’s done this million of times. That’s why he will succeed.  
---*crack*---  
“Sorry for leaving you on the breakroom floor like that. I think I did a good job. But I thought you wanted to be alone with the pain. But hey, I talked to my boss. Says we’re clear. You think you can walk?” 
I grunt. It hurts, but I feel like my shoulder is in place again. Well, actually, my arm is in place again.  
“Let’s regroup at HQ. And see what we can do.”  
What he means is that we’ll drive to his rented flat in Shadyside in the east end of the city and talk things through over fast food and 90s era punk music. I’m going to savor marinating in the atmosphere of his quirky mechanical inventions and their hundreds of paper drafts. I hope there are painkillers at his flat.  
“But first we’ll get you something dry to wear.” 
His voice never fails to pick me up and out of my introspective thoughts. There’s nothing special about the way he speaks, he’s not trying to grab my attention. In fact, he doesn’t seem conscious of the fact that he’s doing it at all. He communicates his intent effortlessly and always to the point. As if an utterance has seemingly been born out of its own necessity to exist. Breathe. No extraneous addendums. At some point in the future, Sammy will take over the store he’s working at. I hope he will offer coffee and waste bins to his customers.  


 
“So, who do you think is behind the attack?” He is looking at plain white shirts. Then hands me the biggest one he can find. Some outlandish number of X’s advertising how large. 
“To dry yourself off.” 
“Always so quick to cut to the chase, Sammy. You know this could all just have been a big accident.” 
“Yes, yes, but you have to admit to the odds. There were two strangers involved. And when a wallet goes missing in the act, there is enough reason to think about it.” 
He has a point. I wait for him to speak again.  
“Puny thievery? I don’t think so. A mere cover-up if you ask me. Is anything else missing? They took the wallet knowing you would find out immediately. Come on, you’re sharper than this. Use your head. Don’t let the strangeness of the situation get to you... Ehm, hoodie or Christmas sweater?” 
“Seasonal, please.” Hoodies are more his style. 
“But if they were executing a targeted attack, why me? And what are they really after?” 
“Man, you must be really hypothermic, come on, the great Oliver Owen? They must know something.” 
The great Oliver Owen is picking a pair of Jeans, as Sammy has narrowed the sweater selection down to two options. 
“Obviously, they are after your emotivational powers. They probably think they found a method to analyze or even extract whatever makes it work. Now they need you to prove their theory. Watch you. Make you use your powers.” 
Dressed in blue Jeans and a red Christmas sweater, Sammy in his new black hoodie, we’re now walking to his white 1991 Toyota Supra 3.0. In the car, Daniel- eh, I mean, Sammy hands me one of those ancient flip phones. 
“Prepaid. Courtesy of frontend convenience.” 
Those cost nothing these days but I’m sure he didn’t pay for this one. 
“You’re welcome. By the way, you hungry?” 
“You bet. I’m starving.” 
“Alright, the usual?” 
“Sure.”  
But why would they orchestrate pushing me off a bridge in the first place? And what would make them act now. Who is “they” anyway? I then ask Sammy out loud. 
“Their motive remains a mystery yet. Who they might be eludes me just the same. But I suggest we schedule an intel gathering session as of… right now? Take my phone.” 
He unlocks his smartphone and opens a new tab as he’s handing it to me. 
I start with a search for anything interesting that might be related to today. People falling off Warhol, bridges in general – in the US, then the world. My search – yielding little of note – dissipates into a general strolling through the news.  
“You find anything?” 
“Nah, the most interesting article is of a teenager who pushed her friend who was doing a dare but being a chicken off a bridge. The friend who fell broke six ribs and had her lungs punctured. The friend who pushed her got two days in jail. There’s an apology video of the friend who went to jail. Here. Listen to this.” 
I play the video. The girl who pushed her friend claims she’s done with their friendship in an overly defensive tone. There is no apology. Her name’s Taylor Smith. 
“Taylor Smith, huh. Can you believe that name? They 100% made that up.” 
Sammy parks the car next to a Five Guys. 
Next to the dumpsters, a man with the thickest and dirtiest jacket I’ve seen all day is hugging his buddy goodbye. He does the thing where he slaps the other man’s back profusely out of what must be some sort of insecurity with this level of skinship between two men. Sammy sees them too. 
“I don’t get it, male insecurity ‘overcome’ through aggressive action. It’s almost as if he needs to hit the other guy on his back first, or else he’s gonna be the one pounded from behind.” 
I wait inside the car as Sammy gets our order. Looking at nothing in particular, taking in the street as a whole, the vast stretches of space locked up for the purpose of streets, shops and the interests of a select few who profit off of land that shouldn’t be anyone’s property... I notice a number of cars park in the street. A father takes his daughter to ballet practice, it seems. A middle-aged woman hauls a soccer team’s worth of laundry out of her car (SUV too, obviously, right?). Through the rear-view mirror, I see a man taking a picture of me. He seems familiar enough to solidify in my memory as the man who bumped into me on the bridge, dark coat, his hair short and gray, wavy as though aged near the sea wind. Salt and pepper. 
He sees me seeing him, puts his camera down, takes something from the passenger seat and says something into it. I try to spot Sammy inside, thinking he must be coming out any minute now, so we can book it. But the man opens his door and glides out in one smooth motion. He starts walking towards the car. He’s staring at my door. I know one thing for sure, if I open it, it will get ugly. Ok, but I can’t stay here. I’m not staying here.  
I maneuver over the shift stick and once cleared hastily position myself into the driver's seat. Some music starts playing. The man must have seen me. He’s sprinting now. Back to his car. He’s following me. His door is still open, but his engine is already howling after me. Several cars now seem to be following me. I try to brake for the first couple of red lights. But I realize this is not the time to look out for road safety rules.  
My driving earns me angried car horns, squeaking tires, shouts, sneers and hands hoisted in the air signifying self-righteous “what the fuck?’s”. What happens if I pass a police car? Will they believe me that I’m being followed? By a group of strangers, whose existence I can’t prove to anyone. Will they recognize me? Has my fall been reported? Are they looking for me anyway?  
Out of instinct I take the path to Shadyside. Already well on the way I reason to myself that it’s the only roads I know well enough to afford me a slight advantage. The only chance at an upper hand I got in this chase. Also, less danger of getting T-boned at an intersection. This gives me some sense of security. Even though I have no idea what they could want from me. I am Noah Brown, just some teenage kid who doesn’t know what to do in life and likes to roleplay with his only real friend, Daniel who can talk all he likes as Sammy, whose explanations only make sense inside the fantasy, though. One of the chasing cars rear-ends me sort of gently trying to steer me off-course, then more forcefully, now trying to damage the car. I have to think of all of those times the police bumped into me when playing GTA V. Needless to say this is harder in real life. 
The Toyota doesn't veer off to one side then the other nearly as orderly as in the game. The roads here are busted from real rain during real winter exploding the real asphalt in super slow-motion, leaving real holes in unpredictable patterns that really upset the way this piece of shit is now driving. One of the impacts pushes me into the curb of a sidewalk which sends the car to a small window of time floating in the air – which pushes my head hard into the roof of the car.  
Losing complete control of the steering wheel, I press my legs into the clutch and brake pedals as hard as I can in hopes for support. I’m semi-flying, semi-sliding through the fence of someone’s backyard. The steering wheel is violently reacting to the car’s actual wheels’ mistreatment as they are digging through the grass and dirt of this mediocrely kept lawn. Man, fuck this lawn. But more than that: Fuck these guys who are following me. What the hell do they want? And what am I supposed to do now?  
The car comes to a standstill and I immediately clench my hands around the now quiet steering wheel as tightly as I can, returning my willful attention to the gas pedal. The car makes the right-ish noises but doesn’t move. Shit. I broke Sammy’s car. The pursuers have stopped their cars and are getting out now. They must have guns. You don’t hit someone’s rear like this – no matter how bad your road rage is – if you’re unarmed. The door on the driver’s side is stuck so I have to hobble over the shift stick once more, this time to make it out of the car. 
“GET THE FUCK OFF MY LAWN!” 
There’s a man in the window aiming an AR-15 type rifle in my direction. Can’t blame him, since I obliterated his lawn just seconds ago. As I crawl out of the door on my elbows, trying to show my hands held up in defense, I see the men and women in black outfits who followed me pull out their guns in return. This is the signal for the man in the window to start firing at them. He shoots right through his own window, shattering the silence after the crash in an instant. Both parties are now actively ducking for cover and firing more or less blindly at each other. Around the corner, where I can still see him, he signals to me to stay on the ground and move around the house. Through the main hall he shoots a window next to the front door then reloads his rifle with a fresh magazine from his tactical vest. 
I’m now confident to use my hands and make my way through the cold mud. The sound of bullets over my head and my cracking shoulder gives me pause to think. I feel like heading back to the car but my body is on autopilot. There is only one way: forward. Soon enough, I have reached the side of the house around which corner I get up and start running toward the front door window. The window is only half blown-out so I clear the rest of the glass with the longboard that was leaning against the wall conveniently. 
I hoist myself into the house, trying to stay as low as possible even on the windowsill when the phone Sammy gave me starts playing that annoyingly famous Beethoven tune in 16-bit quality. Some people think it’s funny. I find myself wondering why you would try to make Beethoven sound “older than better quality digital music” when he’s clearly older than that and has always been enjoyed – if at all – in much better live quality. What a weird contradiction to create.  
I’m in the house now. I barrel roll myself to the nearest wall, find the phone in my pocket and pick up. 
“Sammy?” 
“Yeah man,          the            you doing?            my car?!”  
The gunshots make it hard to hear what he has to say. 
“     , are             gun shots?” 
“I’ll explain later! We were being followed and I booked it! Had to. Guy was coming my way. They got guns! And they’re using them. I’m ok for now. Seeking shelter. Some old dude with a gun is firing back. See you later!” I hang up. 
“I hope.”  
“Ay, where you at, boy?!”  
The man at the window wants to know. 
“Coming!” 
I make my way toward the kitchen, which faces the back yard. 
“Must be one hell’a important boy, you?” 
I can’t deal with this now. I don’t want to have anything to do with this. I just want a way out. He looks at me like all spirits just left him as I notice I’ve been giving him the most intense stare – awkwardly prolonged eye-contact – of my life. I’m staring into this man’s soul.  
A strange sense of boiling hot overwhelms me. I start feeling a mixture of emotions roasting my intestines. My lungs are burning. I cough. The animal inside me is waiting like a rabid dog to be released. Take hold of me. The man at the window drops his rifle and stands up to show himself fully at the window. As he’s lifting his arms in resignation, he is shot multiple times and collapses on the spot. Furious now, I grab his rifle and start firing like he did just seconds ago, but find the magazine soon emptied. I look through his vest to find more ammo but it seems there was more than one reason for his surrender.  
“Fuck.” 
They stop shooting. I hear all kinds of sounds coming from the house.  
“-Owen! Oliver Owen! Yes, Oliver! We know you’re inside the house.” 
The sound is electronically distorted. I can hear glass being crushed under the weight of boots. There’s more. Extreme wind pulsing at an insane speed. A helicopter! I rush toward the front door and through its cracked glass element, I behold the sight and force of a black hawk looking thing just meters above my head. 
“Come on now, there isn’t much time!” 
I do as she says. There is a plastic ladder hanging down for me to climb. How do I know it’s plastic? It has plasticky qualities to the touch. I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe I’m holding onto what seems to be a plastic ladder while flying with a helicopter. But who would let a chance like this slip away right under their nose? We’ve all been here in some kind of nightmarish dream. Always one Deus ex machine dream twist away from salvation.  
Once I’ve climbed inside, they had to pull up the ladder as climbing it was too hard and time-inefficient, she hands me a headset and introduces herself.  
“Name’s Luna, Luna “Delight” Satie.”  
She must have deemed my expression questioning enough to follow with, “Yes, granddaughter of Erik Satie, the eccentric composer.”