John Joseph Jenkins, nickname J, seventy-five, long white hair, well-trimmed white beard, worn tee shirt, Hendrix, front, “Are You Experienced,” back, frayed jeans, Onyx, silver ring, “J” initial on his finger. J sits with an acoustic guitar on his lap singing Neil Young’s “Cinnamon Girl.”

Deep in a groove. Knock at the door. Doesn’t hear it. Louder knocks. Oblivious. Still grooving. A young voice screams while fist pounds. “Open the door! Open the fuckin’ door! Got your damn groceries!”

Finally hears the yelling. Snaps out of the groove. Saunters to the door. Opens it. A Hispanic boy about twelve stands with two scrunched grocery bags held awkwardly by one arm. Free arm, pounder.

“Banging for ten minutes. I ain’t got all day, Old Man.”

“Sorry. Didn’t hear ya.”

“You deaf?”

“Not yet. Put the bags on the kitchen floor. Who are you anyway?”

“I’m filling in for my brother Santos. He’s on vacation.”

“Vacation, hell. Busted dealing H.”

Where’d you hear that?”

Miguel, when I gave him my order”.

“Fuckin bigmouth”.

“Doing time?”

“Whata you care.”

“I like him.”

“Already sprung”

“Who paid?”

“Friends with money”.

“Friends. I bet.

Boy smirks.

J, “Put the bags on the kitchen floor.”

The boy sets them down. Starts out.

“Pay you if you unpack.”

“How much?”

“You tell me”.

“Five bucks.”

“Five it is.”

Boy starts unpacking. “Where’s this stuff go?”

“Cold, the fridge. Rest, closets.”

Kid spots J’s ring. “Cool finger bling. What’s the J stand for?”

“For J. My name.”

“I’m J too. Jose. Two J’s.”

“J, How about that.”

Boy, “I’m done. Pay up. If I’m late Miguel will can my ass.”

J hands Jose a bill.

“That’s a ten.”

“You earned it.”

“Santos says you was a big tipper.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Yeah, Thanks.” Jose opens the door. Leaves.

J walking out of Walgreens script bag in hand. Moseys over to Miguel’s. Spots Jose and Santos arguing out front. Santos angry. Red face, screaming, “You fuckin little shit. I know today’s pay day. Gimme what you got.”

Jose, “Ma’s rent’s due. Hit up your bangers.”

Santos grabs Jose by the shirt. Hoists him to his toes. Double slaps his face. Jose’s nose bleeds. Santos, “Don’t make me shake you down. Bro or no. I’ll beat the…” J, behind Santos, boxes his ear, hard. Santos drops Jose. Turns. Raises fist to J. “Fuckin old man. I’ll kick your ass.” J’s leg lashes out fast, kicking Santos in the balls. Santos drops to his knees, groveling. Pulls out a butterfly, flips out the blade. J kicks the knife from Santos hand, finishes the kick under Santos’s chin. Santos’s mouth gushes blood. J yanks him to his feet, pulls him nose to nose. Deep and mean, “Santos I always liked you, now not so much. You ever, fucking ever, touch Jose again, I’ll make your mouth a bloody hole. Now limp the fuck outta here…now! Santos crouches as he hobbles away. “This ain’t over, old man. Watch your fuckin back.” Santos rounds the corner. Jose, “Jesus, J…where’s you learn…”

“Kickboxer once upon a time, you ok?”

Jose, “Yeah. Shouldn’t made Santos mad. He gets even.”

“Don’t like unfair standoffs. Especially between brothers. Let me know if…”

“He will. I won’t. You done too much already.” J’s knee gives. Starts to wobble. Jose steadies him. “I‘ll walk you home.”

“Appreciate it.” Old man and boy slowly cross the street, arm in arm. Jose, “Know the lady in 30 D?”

J, “ Can’t say I do. Keep a low profile.”

“She plays music too. Piano. Old stuff. Some guy Moz something.”

“Mozart.”

“Oughta check her out.”

“Mind your business. I can make it from here. Thanks.”

Jose, “You sure, J?”

J, “Sure.”

Jose smiles, “See ya round…J.”

J grins, “Back at cha …J.” They go their separate ways.

J, out of the shower. Towel wrapped. Doorbell rings. Calls out, “Just a minute.” Throws on his robe. Goes to the door.

A woman, gray hair, fashionable bob, very attractive. “Oh my, looks like I caught you at a bad time.”

“Perfectly alright. Can I help you?

“I’m Janet Winthrop, 30 D. Jose, the delivery boy said you were a musician. That I should, how did he say it, check you out.”

“Oh, he did, did he?”

“Not so?”

“No matter. I’m John Jenkins. Call me J.

“I’m Jan.”

“Another J.”

“Pardon?”

“Inside joke. Come on in, sit while I change.”

“Actually, I came to ask if you’d like to come to our music club tomorrow afternoon. All friends. All musicians. We play and chat.”

J, hesitant, “I don’t know.”

“Jose says you’re a guitarist.”

“I play some.”

“Bring it along.”

“Not sure I can make it.”

Jan, sweetly persistent, “Other plans?”

“Well, no, but…”

“We meet at three. Good for you?”

“Well, ah…”

“Till then…J.” Spins around. Leaves. Door closed.

 J, “Damn little devil.”

Late for Jan’s music club. Guitar in hand. Apologies. Jan, all smiles, “At least you made it. Her apartment tastefully adorned. Grand piano commands the room. Eight people sit chatting. Most have played. We have a new member today. Jan, Everyone, this is J. A guitarist.” Nods and smiles. “Come. Have some wine. Red, white?” J, “Red.”  She hands him a glass. “We usually ask new members to play. Is that alright with you, J?”

“Well”, taking his guitar from its case, “I don’t have anything prepared.” To Jan, “You by chance know Vivaldi’s concerto in D?”

Jan, surprised, “I’ll pull the score up on my tablet. Got it”.

Jan starts. She’s good. J comes in masterfully. Piano and guitar perfect duet. The room’s enchanted. Jan keeps looking over at J, enthralled. J again, deep in the groove. The piece ends. Jan nods to J. He nods back. They stand side by side…humorously bow. The group titters, stands, applauds. A few bravos thrown in. They gather around J. Many kudos. Jan checks her watch. “Oh my. Time to close.” People depart shaking hands with J. Jan takes him buy the arm, beams, “I had no idea. Jose said…”

“Rock and roll.”

“Yes, but…”

“Juilliard. Unfortunately, rock pays better than classical.” He gently glides his hand over the piano top. “Bosendorfer. Vienna. Very fine.”

“Know your stuff. Gift from my late husband.” They walk to the door. Jan, “Next week?”

“Have to see. Thanks for the invite. Enjoyed it.”

“I’m glad. Nice to have a friend on the same floor. Bye, J.”

He leaves. Walks to his apt with jauntier gate, talking to his guitar. “We did good, ol’buddy, real good.”

J’s vacuuming. Hair in a ponytail, bandana around his head. Loud door knock. Yell. “Hey J, It’s me! Jose. Got your stuff.” Turns off vacuum . Opens the door. Fist bump.

“You pulled a fast one on me…J. Mrs. Winthrop.”

“Said you was great.” Sets down groceries. Starts putting them away.

“Still covering for Santos?”

“Ain’t seen him. Layin low. You always clean your place?”

“Exercise.”

“Mom’s a cleaner. Cheap. You could get her. Text you her number.”

“I do just fine.”

“She could use the money.”

“Text me. Your father?”

“Died. Never knew him. Sisters never knew there’s either. Santiago’s father was bad. Shot in a gangbang. J…? I’m gonna be sixteen Friday. Having a party. I was hoping you could come.”

“Not a party guy.”

“Mrs. Winthrop’s coming. You don’t need to bring no present or nothing. Maybe your guitar.”

J, Grinning, “Hiring me to entertain?”

“Come. Please. A favor. I’ll pick you guys up.”

Jose finishes the groceries. J reaches for his wallet.

“On me. Now you owe me one. My party.”

“Guess you got me.” Fist bump. Jose leaves. J goes back to vacuuming.

Friday. Doorbell. Jan and Jose. Jan, “I’m here with our escort.”

On the street. J hails a cab. “Jose, a cab?”

J, “Special occasion. Opens the door for Jan. “Why thank you kind sir.” She slides in. Jose pauses, warily. J, “ You gonna gawk all day?”

Jose, “Never been in one before. Somebody sees me, never live it down.”

“Get in. My present.”

“Thanks…I guess.”

Cab pulls up to a project building. J and Jan get out. Jose, “Have to walk around to the front.” They follow Jose. Out of nowhere! Santos, heavy breathing, dripping sweat. Terrified. Jose, “What’s going down, bro?”

Gun shots. Close. Loud. Down the street. Black car driving fast. Shooter, out the window. BLAM! BLAM! Santos splits around the corner. Jose pushes J and Jan to the ground. Jumps on top, covering them. More shots. BLAM! BLAM! Car drives by, squeals around the corner. More shots. Silence. Jose gets to his feet. J helps Jan up. “You all OK?”

“I’m ok.”

J, to Jose, “You?” Jose, takes his bloody hand from his side. “I…I dunno…I…I…”

J sees a bullet hole in Jose’s blood drenched shirt. His knees buckle. J catches him. Lowers him to the ground. Jan, cell in hand. Calls 911. Jose, losing it. Murmurs. “But It’s my birthday.”

J, “Hold on, J…hold on. Help’s coming.”

Jose, “My party…my party.”

J, “We’re here, buddy. We’re right here.” Jose stops breathing. J, “Oh, Jesus God no…no.” Jan kneels close, tear streaked. “EMS is on the way.”

J, Crying full out, rocking Jose in his arms. “He’s…gone Jan. He’s gone.”

J and Jan inside funeral home at Jose’s casket. Jan bends in. Kisses Jose lightly on the cheek. J leans in close. “Life owed you so much more my young friend.” He slips off his ring, gently puts it on Jose’s finger. “Happy Birthday…J.

J and Jan walk down the aisle to the door. J takes Jan’s hand. Two J’s walk out of the church leaving one J behind. Tres J’s forever.