Dead Man Walking
The victim of a hate crime is searching for clues in the underbelly of 1930s NYC.
Elijah's never had it easy growing up Jewish and Black in Harlem. The summer race riots spark like a city blaze. Hatred and violence incinerate his neighborhood streets. No one wants to live in the tenements of Harlem, but Elijah isn't yet ready to say the big goodbye. After a friend is left for dead on the curb, he starts to realize he's already stepped into Harlem's snare.
Join Elijah in his search for the truth in seven gritty chapters of this audio story/animation/music project.
Chapter 1 Music Video
Chapter 1 Audio
Elijah's investigation leads him to a rowdy Irish pub in East Harlem.
This audio-only version provides additional sound FX for a slightly different take on Chapter 1!
This audio-only version provides additional sound FX for a slightly different take on Chapter 1!
Chapter 1 Text
New York City. January 5th, 1936.
The sun leaves the night sky red, like murder stains in the street.
A man was slain last night, a long brutal goodbye with heavy blunt objects sending him off, his carcass left there broken on the pavement for his sons to pick up like Sunday scrap. A lifetime of love and joy won't wash away the horror those boys saw this morning, the Star of David and three letters etched deep into his brow with a cheap knife.
“Bo'achem le-shalom malachei ha-shalom.”
Etched, into his brow.
Peace, you say? There is no peace, not in this god-forsaken place, not in East Harlem, where dreams of a new start lay stripped and abandoned in street puddles and clogged sewer drains. This is where dreams go to die.
I'm loitering on the corner of an intersection in front of a shit dive called “Fatty O'Connor's.” Over the doorway there’s an oil lamp lighting the sign of the establishment, both fixtures swinging in the wind and caked with a decade of bird shit and neglect. Big, bad shadows pass in the windows. Loud patrons roar likes car engines crossing in the street. It's just about the last place in Harlem you'd want to end up – unless the kind of end you're aiming for is abrupt.
Now I bet one of these Micks knows something about something last night, so there's no point in ignoring the elephant in the room. I tug the collar of my trench-coat up high and adjust the brim of my hat, fitting it tight to my head. I walk forward onto and across the grease-slicked street to a door with a crude sign that reads: No Jews. No Blacks.
I step through the doorway, inhale the scene.
Ignorance hangs in the air thick like the sour stench of old booze festering in the floorboards of the watering hole. Silence. The din was deafening just a second ago, but now that I’m here it all halts, every voice collapses, all eyes turn on me.
My steps crunch hard against the floor of peanut shells and broken glass, past tables of gambling men with warm beers and flared cards in hand. The murmurs begin. I can hear slurred slurs being whispered through the crowd like an ugly rumor. I've heard them all before, time and time again; and as much as I'd like to say they bank off my skin like cool drops of summer rain, in truth they cut deep, each and every time.
The sun leaves the night sky red, like murder stains in the street.
A man was slain last night, a long brutal goodbye with heavy blunt objects sending him off, his carcass left there broken on the pavement for his sons to pick up like Sunday scrap. A lifetime of love and joy won't wash away the horror those boys saw this morning, the Star of David and three letters etched deep into his brow with a cheap knife.
“Bo'achem le-shalom malachei ha-shalom.”
Etched, into his brow.
Peace, you say? There is no peace, not in this god-forsaken place, not in East Harlem, where dreams of a new start lay stripped and abandoned in street puddles and clogged sewer drains. This is where dreams go to die.
I'm loitering on the corner of an intersection in front of a shit dive called “Fatty O'Connor's.” Over the doorway there’s an oil lamp lighting the sign of the establishment, both fixtures swinging in the wind and caked with a decade of bird shit and neglect. Big, bad shadows pass in the windows. Loud patrons roar likes car engines crossing in the street. It's just about the last place in Harlem you'd want to end up – unless the kind of end you're aiming for is abrupt.
Now I bet one of these Micks knows something about something last night, so there's no point in ignoring the elephant in the room. I tug the collar of my trench-coat up high and adjust the brim of my hat, fitting it tight to my head. I walk forward onto and across the grease-slicked street to a door with a crude sign that reads: No Jews. No Blacks.
I step through the doorway, inhale the scene.
Ignorance hangs in the air thick like the sour stench of old booze festering in the floorboards of the watering hole. Silence. The din was deafening just a second ago, but now that I’m here it all halts, every voice collapses, all eyes turn on me.
My steps crunch hard against the floor of peanut shells and broken glass, past tables of gambling men with warm beers and flared cards in hand. The murmurs begin. I can hear slurred slurs being whispered through the crowd like an ugly rumor. I've heard them all before, time and time again; and as much as I'd like to say they bank off my skin like cool drops of summer rain, in truth they cut deep, each and every time.
Watch an interview with Bassist Eddie Bones
as he discusses a marvelous new invention, Paul Tutmarc's Model 736 Bass Fiddle. Circa 1936
Chapter 2 Audio
Chapter 2 Text
At the opposite side of the room, Fatty O'Connor’s the bloated carcass propped up behind the bar polishing mugs. He’s faced the other way, medals from a battle nobody cares about anymore pinned on to his rolled-up sleeve. The barkeep doesn't even bother to turn around, just keeps cramming his dirty rag into glass after glass, putting them back onto the shelf, smear stains and all. Fatty's voice is like jagged rubble dragged across a school chalkboard.
“We don't serve your kind here.”
Like a mantra in this part of town, drummed into the heads of children from their fathers and fathers long before them.
“Money from me is just as good as money from any of these crumbs” I say.
“Yeah, right, money.”
Fatty turns around now slow and sure, his gut greeting the bar half a stop before that red, shrunken face of his meets mine.
“What are you looking for, boy?”
I reach into my coat pocket and I pull out a ten, waving the bill in front of him.
“I just need some information, Fatty. Ain't so hard. Ain't gotta be. Consider it a business opportunity.”
I push the greenback across the bar and he glares fixed at me with black tiny eyes, like a steamed lobster on a dinner plate. Next thing I know the pressing weight of five angry thugs, closing in from behind, blots out my periphery.
“A man was murdered last night, right down the block, and someone's gonna answer for it. ”
“What's it to me?”
Fatty spits out a wad of tobacco and he turns his back on me again, scrubbing his last few mugs and slipping them back onto the shelf.
“He was my friend, Fatty, so it means something to me. In fact, it means everything to me.”
To my immediate left and to my right, stools are taken up by big hulking masses of mean flesh, stinking of day-old toil and tonight's spoils. I make sure not to face them, or their friends circling beyond my field of view -- just keeping my head low, digging out a snipe, my lighter and greeting them to ignite. 'Buying a little time.' But like I said before: there's point in ignoring the elephant sitting in the room. With that thought I crack my neck from one side to the next and grind my hands into fists.
“We don't serve your kind here.”
Like a mantra in this part of town, drummed into the heads of children from their fathers and fathers long before them.
“Money from me is just as good as money from any of these crumbs” I say.
“Yeah, right, money.”
Fatty turns around now slow and sure, his gut greeting the bar half a stop before that red, shrunken face of his meets mine.
“What are you looking for, boy?”
I reach into my coat pocket and I pull out a ten, waving the bill in front of him.
“I just need some information, Fatty. Ain't so hard. Ain't gotta be. Consider it a business opportunity.”
I push the greenback across the bar and he glares fixed at me with black tiny eyes, like a steamed lobster on a dinner plate. Next thing I know the pressing weight of five angry thugs, closing in from behind, blots out my periphery.
“A man was murdered last night, right down the block, and someone's gonna answer for it. ”
“What's it to me?”
Fatty spits out a wad of tobacco and he turns his back on me again, scrubbing his last few mugs and slipping them back onto the shelf.
“He was my friend, Fatty, so it means something to me. In fact, it means everything to me.”
To my immediate left and to my right, stools are taken up by big hulking masses of mean flesh, stinking of day-old toil and tonight's spoils. I make sure not to face them, or their friends circling beyond my field of view -- just keeping my head low, digging out a snipe, my lighter and greeting them to ignite. 'Buying a little time.' But like I said before: there's point in ignoring the elephant sitting in the room. With that thought I crack my neck from one side to the next and grind my hands into fists.
Starring Americk "EasyMac" Lewis
Written by Richard Cunningham
Based on a story by Clancy Smith, PhD
Written by Richard Cunningham
Based on a story by Clancy Smith, PhD