Dear Reader,

Welcome to Issue Nine.

I‘m currently in the process of reviewing Terry Eagleton’s forthcoming book Across the Pond on behalf of the New York Journal of Books. Here, the distinguished professor compares and contrasts the United States of America with Great Britain, pouring unequal measures of bile and syrup upon both. His introduction ponders the “sin of stereotyping”, which “all high-minded liberals have learned to abhor”.

Professor Eagleton goes on to defend the stereotype, stating that “like medical textbooks or prayers for the dying, they focus on what we have in common”. We are asked to receive many of the generalisations that the author makes about the Americans and the British as tongue in cheek, although he does draw on what he believes to be predictable social patterns.

In this age of political correctness, Professor Eagleton’s study is both uncomfortable and intentionally provocative. That is not to say that it is not deeply thought provoking.

In many respects, I fall among the liberals who are suspicious of stereotypes.  When StepAway Magazine publishes a collection of poetry and prose examining walking in the city, my focus is on shared experience. Regardless of whether the piece is set in Moscow or Mumbai, our authors are united in their joy of cutting through a crowd and of observing and recording street life.

I also place a great emphasis on the individuality of each story or poem. More often than not, our writers share a unique and personal experience, rather than grandly generalising what it means to walk in a specific city. Two poems about Manhattan may share the same landmarks, but capture a radically diverse mood.

In particular, Professor Eagleton’s ruminations on personal space made me think about predictable social patterns found in specific cities. He writes:

People in the States will say “Excuse me” if they come within ten feet of you, since they are accustomed to having so much of the stuff [space] that they expect you to feel intruded upon. On the Tokyo subway, by contrast, you can sit in someone’s lap for half an hour without them realising. (On the London Underground they would notice but pretend that you weren’t there, fearful of making a fuss.)

This passage, in many respects, underlines the perils of the stereotype. The author imagines everyone riding on the London Underground to be an infinitely polite, stiff upper lipped, bowler hatted businessman. Next time you’re riding the tube, I dare you to sit on a strangers knee. Should they kick up a fuss, please tell them that Professor Eagleton said it was perfectly acceptable behaviour.

However, there are some wry observations to be found in Across the Pond. In my experience, Americans do, in general, prefer a little more space around them when they walk in public space. I remember cutting across the path of a gentleman in the lobby of the New York Palace. Our bodies came no closer that eight feet apart, and yet, I too received an irritated “excuse me”.

Conversely, when riding the Metro into Newcastle a few days ago, a large drunken man stood on my foot. In a Hugh Grant style homage to the English gent, I immediately apologised to him. “Sorry!” Apologising when being bumped, buffeted and trampled by others is a distinctly English trait.

In other cities, there are certain actions that I have learned to expect. In Moscow, I predict that the babushka in the bank queue will stand very close behind me and prod a bony knuckle into my back. Despite living in the largest country in the world, Russians are accustomed to existing in tight proximity. Just look at the width of the aisles in their supermarkets – barely wide enough for two trolleys to pass without clashing. I secretly suspect that many relish that clash.

In the south of Italy, I enjoy the idea of passegiata. Yet, in the act of parading at night in all manner of couture finery, the Italians have forgotten how to give way to one another. Rather than each party steering a gradual path around the other, they adopt a collision course, the weaker willed of the two groups veering sideways at the very last moment. Whether or not this is a conscious attempt to enforce a pecking order, it is fascinating, and, dare I say, rather amusing to observe.

It feels rather indulgent to generalise in this manner. However, Mr. Eagleton does have a point: to examine shared social factors is to understand how a city is bound together by circumstance and by distinct behavioural patterns. And yet it is important not to take stereotypes seriously – these ‘shared characteristics’ are by no means carved into the very being of every inhabitant of a particular city or country.

I am certain that not every Russian grandmother is ready to push me in the back when things are moving slowly, or that every Versace wearing ragazzo is pumped up to play sidewalk chicken as I approach. Stereotypes offer an entry point into a society for the outsider. They are basic, most often flawed, and on the occasion highly offensive.

In as much as it is useful to examine stereotypes, it is equally important to treat them with the contempt which they deserve. We should not forget that the city in all its chaos and beauty is animated by the shared experience of individuals, each of whom bring their own unique muddle of hopes, morals, fears and prejudices to one specific locale. This is what makes walking through a crowd most fascinating and why the mood of any urban space can change within any given moment.

StepAway issue nine opens with “The Red Hat” by Joachim Frank, a sensual walk on Broadway, New York. We are then transported to Queens in “Main Street: Flushing”, a poem by Kenneth Nichols which never ceases to make me salivate with hunger. Next, Van G. Garrett’s poem “Walking: Postcard From the Ghetto Part 2″ charts a path through what for some would be considered a ‘no-go’ enclave of the city. Poets Kenny Fame and Gregory Luce both ride the rails in “Subway Series” and “On the Green Line”. Meanwhile “The Walk” a poem by Anina Robb leads us down to the Riverside, while Adam Berlin’s flash fiction “14^th Street Down” skirts the banks of the Hudson downtown. Dana Brown’s “Attention” and Nathan Leslie’s “Down the Line” are two very different meditations on the vast network of power lines which stretch out across America. We close this issue with Colleen M. Farrelly’s “Overtown Store Front,” a poetic glimpse of Miami.

Our cover photograph comes courtesy of Dima Zverev, one of the most talented and imaginative urban photographers working in the field today. His portfolio is a joy to explore.

I hope that you enjoy this issue which marks the second anniversary of StepAway‘s launch. It has been a pleasure to watch this magazine grow over the past two years.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank our contributors and readers for their steadfast support.

Yours faithfully,

Darren Richard Carlaw

editor@stepawaymagazine.com

“You never told me you had a hat like that!”

I was – let me use this time-honored expression — thunderstruck. There was no mistake. I was supposed to believe that in all the time it had taken for the couple to meet at one place, let’s call it A, and walk to place B – the place where I encountered them – that in all that time he’d never brought up the subject of the red hat. I was discounting the possibility they were living together, since in that case he would have noticed the hat right off the bat. Alternatively, the hat would have been subject of an unspoken consensus never to bring it up in a public conversation. So, given the clues I had been handed, I stuck with the idea they lived separately and had met for a rendezvous, perhaps on the Verdi Plaza — by the imposing statue of the composer – or perhaps, more down to earth, at Starbucks nearby.

There is a time in a couple’s gestation of love — we are talking weeks or months here, not years! — when every conversation evolves into a disclosure of some sort. Her failure to disclose to him the existence of the hat, and her idea to wear it at this particular outing would have been a serious setback of their relationship, and in that case I would have been an involuntary witness of a scene with enormous emotional ramifications, perhaps resulting in a breakup right there — but I must maintain he would have had the accusatory reaction right when they’d met for the date, not at the time I passed the couple, when they must have already exhausted subject matters such as the weather, memories of their last romantic encounter, and — who knows? – even the current proliferation of bedbugs in town.

There was, I forgot to mention, no response by her; she simply continued walking next to him, continued putting one high-heeled shoe in front of the other with the click-clack I had heard before, with hips still swinging, invisible to me then as I was already ahead of the couple, but still continuing to swing in my imagination, and if she acknowledged his remark at all, it must have been by a move or gesture, a shrug of her shoulder, a throw-away flick of her hand, or a quick backward tilt of her head – like the one employed by the Greek when they say ochi to express total disagreement.

In other words, I didn’t for a second buy the idea that the two protagonists were having a normal conversation, and that the quip about the hat by him directed at her at the precise moment of my passing by was anywhere close to spontaneous. What I suspected right away – and I must now come to the heart of the matter – was that they’d decided to plant the remark right then, at the time and place where I would be able to overhear it. The preparation that I assume would have gone into the precise choreography of the encounter, the planning for it, which might have involved a chalkboard and meetings of a special task force at subterranean hideouts, the selection of spies they’d have to send out to confirm I was definitely on my way, and in fact serious about taking this precise path; the gathering of intelligence from my doorman, my cleaning lady, and my hairdresser; the bribes the facilitators would have had to pay; all that pointed to a very sophisticated operation, with people at the top, middlemen in the middle, and their lowly low-paid assistants at the bottom; lawyers retained as a backup in case the setup might run afoul; the installation of miniature microphones, the cooperation of complicit banks on the Upper West Side, the planning for escape routes, and all the instruments of subterfuges we know so well from the movies shot right here, right where I live.

This all brought to mind the question, which had started to plague me once I had time to reflect on the incidence, what exactly had made me the target of this plot. Why am I being singled out? I had never met her — that much was certain! – but I couldn’t be so sure about him, on the other hand. The blandness of his expression, his distinct lack of features, the way he dressed, it all left open the possibility that I had met him on numerous occasions without ever taking notice of him. In fact if he had intended to avoid leaving an impression, he could have not done better than dress like this.

I was never forewarned about this test of my intelligence, of my patience, and good will. I demand an explanation, but I’m unsure whom I can turn to. Meanwhile, the red hat has surfaced in my dreams: it is the stuff the Brothers Grimm were known to dwell on. If the tall woman is some sort of modern Red Riding Hood, then surely her boyfriend is a lesser wolf. In fact he is one of the lessest wolves I have ever come across on the Upper West Side, or, to tell you the truth, anywhere else I have been in the world.

What I do know is, apart from the physical attributes I have described, the place of the encounter – 68th Street — and the direction they walked in — south on Broadway — but I very much doubt this gives me a handle to find them now, four weeks after the encounter, given the fact that 70% of Manhattanites live south of this particular point.

But lately I have come think of an explanation that has given me more confidence to find her yet, despite the diminishing odds. For I believe I might have made a mistake, all along, assuming it was he who had targeted me with his remark. I have now come to think she wore the red hat for me, just for me, seeking all along an opportunity to get away from an oppressive relationship with a man entirely inattentive to her needs and her wardrobe; in other words, with a total brute. This idea gives me hope she will continue to wear the red hat, if only as a signal to beckon me with, so I can help her make an escape.

I’m happy about this turn of events, and the new responsibility it has given me. I only wished she had given me more clues. There is one thing I’m sure of, once we are finally united: I will never, ever tell her I didn’t know about that hat.

Joachim Frank

In winter, the noodle shop under the bridge
Fills the air with the aromas
Of cooking oil and fried meat—
Sharp clouds from the steam tables
Curl through the windows, twisting with
Cumulus billows from the customers
And the bright Asian faces pushed forward
To take orders.

In the summer, the savory perfume of
      Thin-sliced beef
      Cabbage and carrot and sprout
      Cooked in caramelized soy
      With thick noodles to soak up the rest
Is challenged by the water splashed from
Fish trucks making their rounds.
Ocean brine complicated when
Baked into the pavement by the sun.

For a dollar:
A twirled mound tonged into a
Styrofoam clamshell with practiced ease.
A taste of the new Flushing;
      Nancy Reagan’s birthplace
      Gatsby’s waystation and
      World’s Fair ghost town
Is reborn in
      Marble-floored apartment building lobbies
      Swirling jade
      And characters instead of letters
      On storefront doors.

Kenneth Nichols

Not a walk in a park; a field trip in minefields.
No gas mask or wrong colored flag,
Shielding rotten bananas and tofu sexing soul food
In too narrow alleys where a used condom is a reminder
Someone took the time to care.

This is where I see the light. The world.
Showing her breasts bursting through walls
Neon as billboards advertising the same vices
In exclusive places where Dunhill and mouths
Caked with lipstick brighter than taggings embrace.

Someone asked,
Why don’t you take another route?
One more scenic, safer.

Here, I know the sounds of cops
Driving toward or away.
Ambient noises. Rats rifling.

Here, a walk is a movie
I didn’t pay a week’s worth of groceries to see.
A crowd of strangers holding their purses and wallets
When I cough from thirst, but can’t afford a five-dollar bottle
Of water, knowing I can get half of a baker’s dozen
From a convenience store that has flawed burglar bars.
Stale cookies and discounted potted meat in bruised cans.

A structure too stingy to quit; a mom and pop spirit
I pass during the night for solace, when others warn to
Be aware, even during the breaking of day,
When the sun seeps beautifully into cracks.

Footnote: *Flag, another word for bandana; **Taggings, another name for graffiti

Van G. Garrett

II.)
AS THE GIRL SITTING ACROSS FROM HIM LOOKS ON

Dude becomes lost in his I
Pad. He’s slowly dancing
a hole into his seat on the sub
way train. An elderly
man & young white girl stare, blankly into
empty newspapers. Trapped
under a green hood, another
truant youngster, just hap-
pens to fall asleep, inside the balls
of his own left handed
fist. Folks dance their way onto the train
as, folks dance their way off it.

III.)
TRITINA: AROUND THE WORLD IN A METROCARD

White dingy tile on subway walls are covered
in graffiti. Trapped on the same train since 125th
he, can’t believe just how many girl’s, actually ride
this train every morning. Face in newspaper riding
back to Brooklyn, he notices how black lines, cover
over the white background. Subway doors open and 125th
seems a world away. Canal Street station crowded like 125th.
Coca Cola ad on a billboard, distracts his attention. Riding
next to him–a baby in a carriage falls asleep; she’s covered
in blanket’s; covered in tired. He loves 125th; but hates long rides.

Kenny Fame

Gregory Luce

The silence before a fight seethes
like melting ice into a cup of tea.
But it’s not the temperature that tears
them apart:
it’s the thought
of dropping the ice in.

They’ve already reached the end.
of the path. Stepping out of the park,
her white tennis shoes glare
like daisies along Riverside. Each step:
He loves her. He loves her not.

Anina Robb

Adam Berlin

Dana Brown

When she was a child she never took the bus. She always walked.

After college she found a job in the city. She walked everywhere. When she took vacations she would hike up mountains, walk ancient cities.

She would usually walk alone. Lyn attributed her loneliness to walking. Men would hoot and whistle at her: “Get in the car baby! Nice ass! Whoo—shake it!”

Lyn wasn’t interested in the role of passenger. Lynn enjoyed being alone with her thoughts, walking with them, carrying them around with her.

When Lyn dreamed, the landscape slowly scrolled by at three miles an hour.

Lyn loved to work out her dialing problems while she walked. Lyn loved the feel of the ground moving beneath her. When she was walking Lyn felt connected.

Lyn’s parents died of old age three months a part. When she quit her job in the city, Lyn decided she needed a vacation. A long vacation with lots of walking, time for reflecting. She was forty-two. She had plenty of time.

When Lyn heard that one could walk from New York to Texas by following the power lines, she thought this sounded worthwhile.

So she did it. She sublet her apartment. She stopped her mail. Dumped her mediocre boyfriend. The relationship wasn’t going anywhere anyway. She knew they were stuck in the rigidity of their middle-aged personalities. Lyn knew she wasn’t good at handling human ambiguity. She didn’t feel like working at something indistinct and intangible. Walking was the opposite: it was grounded.

Lyn packed her backpack, her tent, her clothes, food. She set out for Texas, following the power lines. It was difficult to get lost this way, Lyn thought. It was easy to slip into automatic pilot. It was almost as if the power lines did the walking for her, as if they were a train track.

In the back of her mind Lyn worried about the electricity, but only when she was tired. She had odd, swirling dreams. Lyn did wonder if the electrical currents influenced them.

It was May when Lyn began the trip. The landscape changed slowly. The land flattened and rose. She crossed highways and farms and pastures. She forded creeks, climbed fences.

Dogs chased her. Vultures swarmed overhead. Lyn wondered if the vultures weren’t used to seeing people along the path formed by the power lines.

Mice scurried underfoot.

Herds of deer cleared out ahead of Lyn. She slept in the soft nesting spots the deer made in the pastures.
She felt like a reindeer making its way to a wintering spot.

When she reached Texas, she kept going. She could go through Central America, South America. She could walk for years. Her legs didn’t want to stop. She would walk to Patagonia, to the penguins, as far as the land would take her.

Lyn’s feet hurt. Her legs ached. It didn’t matter. Someone would have to shoot her: she wasn’t stopping for anything less.

Nathan Leslie