The Deep Ellum Duo
As told by A Jay F. Roy
-somewhere south of sanity.
You ever been to Deep Ellum? Not the murals. Not the bars. I mean real Deep Ellum. The bones beneath. There’s a legend whispered with rhythm, and they call it...
The Duo
In the late 1970s, Deep Ellum was a rustbucket dressed in neon. Right in its choked heart stood Strikes & Spares Bowling Alley—a place of broken lanes, moldy pretzels, and beer that tasted like betrayal.
The Men Behind the Mirth
There was Walter “Big Walt” Kowalski, a six-foot-four figure of chain-clanking fraudulence. He had gold rings, a gold smile, and gold lies. His voice was like a radio stuck between warnings.
Then there was Don “Donnie” Marcelli, pocket-sized chaos in platform shoes squeaking regret. His Hawaiian shirts were loud enough to summon rain, and he was always jingling those Cadillac keys like guilt in his palm.
Together, they owned the alley. But not for bowling. They used it for laundering, gambling, and protection. Their lanes bent like promises, and their debts stacked higher than pins.
The Death That Birthed a Haunting
On October 12th, 1978, on Lane 7, the pinsetter jammed. Walt and Donnie were drunk, too confident, and too used to sweet-talking machines like they did people. Walter climbed up, and Donnie crouched low. A mispull. A mistimed push. Then CRASH. Vintage Brunswick steel turned judgment.
They weren’t found until 3:02 AM—the exact moment, they say, every haunting truly begins.
The Reckoning Ledger
When the bodies cooled, so did their cover.
The investigation revealed:
$15,000 owed to merchants
$8,000 to the beer distributor
$3,000 to the city
And dozens of IOUs written in curses
All they left behind was a business account holding $47.83. Not enough for caskets. Not even for pity.
The Funeral of Mockery
The mortuary refused them. So did dignity. Local artist Jasper "Jazz" Williams, owed $200 by the Duo, was paid $25 by the home to "fix their faces." Jazz, however, painted vengeance.
Walter: whiteface, a bulbous nose, blue tears, and a red grin that knew no truth.
Donnie: yellow skin, green sprayed hair, and orange polka dots like insults.
There were no suits. Just burlap sacks from the alley’s broom closet—potato-stained, soul-sized. They were buried like jokes no one laughs at anymore.
The Duo Returns
Every October 12th. Every 3:02 AM. They don't forget.
They walk the alleys. They whisper through drainpipes. They push pins down streets that have no lanes. People see them: two figures, clown-painted, sack-skinned. One tall with sad eyes. One short, grinning too wide. Both carrying bowling pins like hammers.
They say:
“Time to collect.”
“No credit, no credit!”
“Got a proposition for you!”
“Customer service!” (always in unison)
They Know You
They target the confident. The wealthy. The loud. Real estate agents. Investors. Anyone with new shoes and bad manners. They bend alleys. Warp buildings. Distort light and breath. The air thickens when they’re near, like breathing through debt.
Witness Whispers
"Time to collect," the tall one said. Pin pointed at my chest. The short one giggled like keys in a blender.” —1979, Bartender Miguel Santos
“Sounded like voices talking through wet cement.” —1995, Historian Ruby Martinez
“One said, ‘Nice equipment, shame if it broke.’ We packed up real quick.” —2003, Deep Ellum band roadie
“‘Hope you read the fine print!’ they said. Poked my realtor till he ran off. 2 stars.” —Yelp review, 2022
“Saw ’em near the tracks. Turned. Both yelled ‘Customer service!’ and started marching.” —Reddit, 2019
Offerings and Avoidance
Locals still leave tributes on stoops: a cold beer, a few coins, a cigarette half-smoked. Just enough to say: We remember. We don’t want trouble. See you next year.
The bowling alley’s now a boutique hotel. Room 20 and Room 3… still host guests who hear pins falling and laughter that feels earned. At 3:02 AM.
Now this tale? You pass it like an heirloom. Tell it with flame in your breath. Or whisper it when the streetlights flicker. Because some legends? They never ask permission. They just return.