Jerry Garcia Kicking Up His Feet And Enjoying A Starbucks At The End Of The World

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After Jerry’s dead, the world doesn’t so much end as it drifts apart. The last note of his guitar rings out into an expanding silence, a string plucked in some eternal backstage, and the lights never quite come back on. When the dead start walking again, they aren’t moaning or hungry — they’re just lost. They wander through empty cities with ticket stubs in their pockets, whispering lyrics half-remembered from the shows they never made it to.

And there’s Jerry — or what’s left of him — sitting in an old armchair in what used to be someone’s beach house, now half-eaten by time and radiation. The wall is gone, replaced by the horizon itself. The Pacific is calm, impossibly calm, as a great mushroom of light blooms far out where the sun used to fall. Jerry doesn’t flinch. He just leans back, his golden robe glowing with the same lazy shimmer that used to hang around his guitar strings. He’s got a Starbucks cup in hand — the logo still green, somehow untouched by ash — and he takes a sip like it’s just another morning on tour.

The TV in the corner crackles with static, then flickers to life for a heartbeat. It shows footage of waves, endless waves rolling in and out — the same rhythm that drove his music, now washing over everything that was. Somewhere, maybe in that static, the Dead are still tuning up. Pigpen’s laughing. Bobby’s arguing about the setlist. Phil’s insisting on one more take.

But Jerry’s done playing for the living. His audience now is made of ghosts — soldiers of the cosmic jam, drifting in from the fallout and the fog. They gather around him, not close enough to break the spell, but near enough to feel the warmth. Nobody claps. Nobody talks. They just listen as the ocean hums like an old amplifier warming up.

When the blast wind finally reaches the shore, it doesn’t destroy him. It only lifts the dust and carries it into the light, spinning like motes in a golden spotlight. Jerry’s smile doesn’t fade. He taps his foot against the red, horned figure lying beneath him — the devil himself, tired and done arguing — and says,
“Relax, man. The show’s over. Let’s just watch the encore.”

And somewhere between the ash and the starlight, the music begins again.