Let The Guitar Decide
Jerry Garcia Blesses My 1935 Harmony Cremona Guitar in San Rafael
Full Table of Contents: Surfing the Interstates: Complete Chapter Guide
Chapter Ten: Let The Guitar Decide
1016 Lincoln, San Rafael. The address worn soft from folding and unfolding. A small Victorian building. Sign says they’ve moved to a three story office building. After a long walk, I reach it. I can feel the energy flowing out. Something alive here. Something real.
Inside, beautiful receptionist with beaded braids looks up from a desk covered in concert posters and mail.
"Help you?"
"I just... I'm a musician. On the road. Wanted to see where they work."
She smiles. Probably gets this daily. Pilgrims like me, stars in their eyes.
"They're just back from the road. Resting up. But you can look around if you want. Just don't touch anything."
"Thanks."
"Third floor's where the magic happens," she adds, already turning back to the phone.
Wandering the halls, still wearing my backpack, carrying my guitar. It's everything and nothing like I'd imagined—tie-dye sheets draped over fluorescent lights making rainbow shadows dance on the walls. The smell of fresh-cut pine from barnwood being installed, transforming corporate bland into something alive. Skull and roses posters everywhere. Europe '72. Veneta. Shows I was at, shows I missed, shows that existed in some parallel universe where I made different choices.
Second floor, following the sound of hammering. Workers installing the barnwood, transforming the space board by board. They nod, keep working. Everyone here seems to understand the pilgrims. We're part of the ecosystem.
Find myself in a back room on the third floor. Equipment everywhere—amps standing like monoliths, mic stands clustered like a metal forest, cables coiled like sleeping snakes. The gear that makes the magic. Set down my guitar case, just taking it in. This is where they prep for whatever they do out there. Where the mundane becomes transcendent.
Studying a mixing board, trying to understand its mysteries, when a side door opens. Man walks in, stops short.
Jerry Garcia.
Unmistakable even in work clothes. Fresh from Watkins Glen—I'd heard they'd just played for 600,000 people. Hair tied back, cigarette dangling from his lips like punctuation. Not the rock star pose from the posters. Just a guy in his workspace, finding a stranger.
He sizes me up—the road dust on my boots, the backpack with its telltale wear patterns, eyes stopping on my beaten guitar case. Not angry, just curious. That famous smile starting slow.
"You lost?"
"Sort of. The receptionist said I could look around."
"Ah, Donna. She's got a soft spot for the wanderers." He steps closer, still looking at the case. "What you got in there?"
"1935 Harmony Cremona arch-top."
His eyebrows rise. Genuine surprise. "No shit? Pull it out."
Something in his voice—real interest, not politeness. I kneel, work the latches. The case opens like a confession. He immediately leans in, like he's greeting an old friend. Studies the wood grain, the worn spots where thousands of hours of playing have left their mark.
"May I?"
Already reaching, but asking. The courtesy of one musician to another. I nod. He lifts it carefully, weighing it in his hands like he's reading its history through his palms.
Sits on an amp. Tunes quickly—his ear so true he barely needs to adjust. Then plays a few bars. Not showing off, just listening. Something bluesy, exploratory. Notes that seem to wake up the wood. The room fills with warm tone, like honey through old speakers.
“Beautiful voice. These old ones, they've got songs already inside them." He plays a little run up the neck, grins at something only he can hear. "The wood remembers everything. Every campfire, every wedding, every funeral. It's all in there, waiting."
Hands it back like he's returning a baby. I take it, feeling something different in its weight now.
"I picked it up at Manny's in New York. Guy said it had been sitting in the back for years."
"Waiting for you." He lights a fresh cigarette, the match flare brief and bright. "It's a cannon. That brightness in the upper mids? That's dance hall tone. Designed to cut through horns, back when guitars had to fight for space."
He gestures at the modern amps around us. "Now we just turn up louder. But these old ones, they learned to sing before electricity. Different kind of power."
"The action's a little high."
"Good. Makes you work for it. Builds your hands." He flexes his fingers, those famous hands that found impossible runs and made them look easy. "You know about hide glue?"
"Holds different than modern glue, right?"
"It crystallizes. Lets the wood vibrate as one piece instead of fighting itself. These pre-war guitars, before they started using plastic, before the shortcuts..." He shakes his head like mourning a lost age. "That's Brazilian rosewood on the fretboard, bridge and tailpiece?"
"Think so. The grain's like nothing else."
"They can't even get that wood anymore. All protected. Trees that took centuries to grow, cut down for furniture and guitars." He's looking at the guitar in my hands like it's the last of its kind. Which maybe it is. "New guitars are like new people. All potential, no stories. The old ones already know who they are. They've had time to settle into themselves. You just gotta listen."
A woman pokes her head in. Short hair, clipboard, all business. "Jerry, phone call. It's Bill."
"Yeah, coming." But he doesn't move yet. Turns back to me. "You heading anywhere particular?"
"South. Maybe LA. Maybe further."
"Let the guitar decide. It probably knows better than you do." That grin again. Then, more serious: "Keep playing that. It's got more to say than you know. And it chose you to say it."
He starts to leave, turns back one more time. "Oh, and when you hit Big Sur—and you will hit Big Sur, they all do—play it outside at night. The salt air does something to the tone. Opens it up."
Quick handshake. His hand smaller than expected, soft but strong. Musician's hand, not a worker's. Calluses in all the right places.
Then he's gone. Just the smell of his cigarette and the echo of the notes he played.
Standing there holding my road guitar, understanding something new. It's not just wood and wire. It's a book written in tone, carrying every song it ever sang. And now it carries a few bars of Jerry Garcia, mixed in with all the rest.
Walk back through the offices slowly. Past rooms where beautiful people do beautiful work. They don't see me and that's okay. I'm not part of this particular magic. Just a pilgrim who got a moment with the saint. More than I deserved. Exactly what I needed.
Outside, the California sun hanging afternoon-golden. Everything different now. The weight of the guitar changed. The day opened up like a door.
Stand on the sidewalk for a full minute, guitar case suddenly heavier with significance. Did that really just happen? Jerry Garcia just played my guitar. Told me to trust it. Told me to listen.
Thumb out on 101. Need to cross the Golden Gate, find somewhere to sit with this feeling. A van stops—colorful, loud, full of hippies heading to the city.
"Golden Gate Park?" the driver asks.
"Perfect."
They're going to some gathering. Drums and dancing. Drop me near the Japanese Tea Garden with wishes for good journeys. The park sprawling green and endless. Find a bench away from the main paths. Quiet spot where the city feels distant. Set down the guitar, the pack. Jerry's blessing still warm in my hands.
Pull out the Harmony Cremona. Time to let it breathe, like Jerry said. Tune up, start fingerpicking. Nothing fancy. Just finding the notes that want to be found. The guitar seems different now. Like it knows it was recognized by royalty.
Play for a while. People pass—joggers, families, other wanderers. Some smile. Some drop coins I didn't ask for. One old Chinese man stops, listens to a whole song, nods once, moves on. Benediction without words.
Pack up the guitar eventually. Pull out my notebook, the one luxury I allow myself. Moleskine, black cover already soft with handling. Try to capture what I'm feeling. The words come in fragments:
Thursday, August 8th, San Francisco
Bright pastels, whites, a trace of the sea and the breeze
The endless predictable flow of city life
Drone of construction, rhythm of sprinklers
Whoosh of traffic, hum of airplanes
Little voices of children, scratch of footsteps
I feel free and sort of aimless
Yet I seem to know where I'm heading
How sure my accomplishment will be
A couple walks by, arguing about something. Money probably. Or time. The eternal arguments. I keep writing:
Minstrel, free man
No sloth or hanging jowls
Only an intense ascetic wisdom
Peace within myself
Freedom from desires
But is that true? Still want things. Still desire. Just different things now. Not Steve's paranoid freedom. Not safety. Something else. The next song. The next mile. The next moment of recognition, like Jerry's eyes seeing my guitar's truth.
Will I drink and sleep and stumble
Half-blinded and forgetful
To an inconspicuous death?
Will I ever know what it means to be free
Or to love, not to conquer and possess
But to nurture and caress?
A kid stops near me, dressed in blue, maybe nine years old. Watches me writing with that unself-conscious curiosity only children have.
"What are you doing?"
"Writing down the day."
"Why?"
"So I don't forget."
He thinks about this. Then: "I never forget good days. Only bad ones."
His smile burrows inward, transparent and full of glee
So much to see, so much to do
I'm on my way, he turns the corner
With a skip and a step
May I always have a little farther to go
Close the notebook. The afternoon cooling, fog starting its creep from the ocean. Time to move. But where? South, Jerry said. Let the guitar decide.
Stand up, stretch. Pack everything, check the ground for forgotten items. Old road habit. Leave only footprints. Take only stories.
Walking toward the park exit, thinking about hitchhiking. Maybe catch a ride down Highway 1. Maybe find a beach to sleep on. Maybe—
That's when I see it.
At first, just wrong colors in my peripheral vision. Orange that doesn't belong in nature. Purple that fights with green. Turn fully and stop dead.
A bus. But calling it a bus is like calling the Sistine Chapel a ceiling.
It's a 1939 International Harvester that someone fed LSD to. Painted like a sunset having an argument with a rainbow. Guitars mounted on the roof like antenna to another dimension. Speakers where the destination sign should be, crackling with what sounds like backwards Beatles mixed with whale songs. The whole thing vibrating with some internal rhythm that might be the engine or might be the universe humming to itself.
It's moving slow, like it's looking for something. Or someone. Pulls up to the curb right in front of me. No coincidence in this. The universe doesn't work in coincidences, just patterns we're too close to see.
The door opens—accordion doors that wheeze like an old man laughing. Driver's got a beard that would make Merlin jealous and aviator goggles pushed up on his head like a third eye.
"You heading south?" His voice like gravel soaked in honey.
"Yeah."
"Hop on. We're running the coast to LA. Maybe further. Depends on the vibes, the tides, and the availability of snacks."
Look inside. Six, seven people, each one their own novel. Guy in the back juggling what appear to be potatoes. Woman playing a dulcimer that's been painted with galaxies. Someone working on what looks like a ham radio made of driftwood and dreams. The seats are old church pews bolted to the floor, worn smooth by a thousand asses seeking salvation through motion.
"This is..."
"Tuesday," the driver says. "Or maybe Thursday. Time works different on the bus. You coming or not? We're burning daylight and diesel in equal measure."
The universe providing. Just like Jerry said. Don't find it. Let it find you. And here it is, idling rough, smelling of patchouli and possibility.
Climb aboard. The door wheezes shut. The driver grins, teeth like broken piano keys.
"I'm Cosmic Eddie. Welcome to the Uncertainty Principle. Only rule is there ain't no rules. Except don't harsh the vibe. And help with gas money if you can. And no playing 'Stairway to Heaven.' We had an incident."
"I'm—"
"Doesn't matter. You'll be someone else by the time we get there anyway. The bus changes people. Or maybe reveals them. Haven't figured out which."
He throws it in gear. The whole bus shudders, coughs, then smooths out. Like it remembered how to be a bus. Or decided to pretend for a while.
We roll through the streets of San Francisco. Past the Victorians standing like painted ladies. Past the shops selling tomorrow's antiques. Past the street prophets and the tourists and the locals who've learned to tell the difference.
"Where'd you find this bus?" I ask Cosmic Eddie.
"Didn't find it. It found me. Was living in my car in Mendocino. Meditating on my failures. Woke up one morning and this was parked next to me. Keys in the ignition. Note on the windshield said 'Your turn.' So I turned the key."
"That's it?"
"That's it. Been driving it for three months now. Picking up whoever needs picking up. Dropping them where they need to be. The bus knows. I'm just the guy who turns the wheel."
"How does it know?"
"Mystery isn't a problem to be solved. It's a gift to be opened."
We head south through the city, then catch Highway 1 at the ocean. The Pacific opens up on our right like a blue infinitude. Ahead, the road hugs the coastline, winding toward Santa Cruz, Monterey, Big Sur. All the sacred places of the California coast.
The woman with the dulcimer starts playing. Soft. Notes that match the color of the late afternoon light. Someone in the back starts humming. Harmony without rehearsal. The bus becomes a sound chamber, every surface resonating.
We roll through Pacifica. The fog starting its evening crawl over the hills. Surfers still out, black dots on silver water. The juggler points them out.
"Used to surf. Before I discovered gravity was optional."
"So what's your story?" he asks me, potatoes circling in perfect arcs.
"Don't have one yet. Still writing it."
"Good answer. Stories are prisons. Better to be a rough draft."
Someone passes around dried mango. Someone else has a jug of sun tea that tastes like flowers. The ham radio operator gets a signal from what he claims is Mars but sounds more like Modesto.
The coast reveals itself curve by curve. Devil's Slide coming up, where the road clings to cliffs like a dare. Cosmic Eddie takes it slow, respectful. Even chaos acknowledges geography.
"First time I drove this stretch," he says, "the bus told me to stop. Right at the scariest part. Thought we were breaking down. But then this whale surfaces. Right there. Close enough to see its eye. Looking at us. Like it was saying 'Yeah, you think you're on a journey? Try migrating ten thousand miles twice a year.' Humbling."
This is it. The thing I came looking for without knowing its name. Not Steve's paranoid freedom. Not the redwood silence. Not even Jerry's blessing, though that's part of it. This rolling chaos. This purpose without destination. This bus that shouldn't exist carrying people who barely do toward a future that definitely doesn't. Yet.
Someone hands me a beer. Anchor Steam, still cold from some cooler I can't see. The juggler switches to oranges. The ham radio crackles with what might be poetry or might be static. Hard to tell. Doesn't matter.
"How far south you going?" Cosmic Eddie asks.
"Don't know. How far does the bus go?"
He laughs. Sound like wind chimes made of bones.
"Now you're learning. The bus goes until it stops. Then it goes again."
Half Moon Bay slides by. Pumpkin fields and Christmas tree farms. The ordinary world doing its ordinary thing while we roll through in our painted impossibility. Kids in a station wagon stare. Their parents pretend not to see. The eternal dance.
Pull out my guitar. Because it needs to breathe. Because this moment needs a soundtrack. Because Jerry told me to listen and maybe this is what it wants to say.
Start picking. Something in D. Always D when you don't know where you're going. The dulcimer woman finds the key immediately. Harmonizes without hesitation. The juggler adjusts his rhythm to match. Even the engine seems to find the groove.
The sun drops toward the ocean. That California sunset that makes you forgive the state for everything else. We're chasing it south, like we might catch it if we drive fast enough. But Cosmic Eddie keeps it steady. The bus knows its pace.
Miles unspool. Stories emerge. The woman with the dulcimer once played backup for Joan Baez. The juggler learned his art in a Turkish prison. Cosmic Eddie may or may not have been at the original Acid Tests. The stories might be true. Might be better than true.
"Santa Cruz coming up," someone announces. "Good street scene if anyone needs supplies."
"Nah," says Cosmic Eddie. "The bus wants to keep rolling. Can feel it in the wheel."
Someone starts making sandwiches with ingredients that materialize from various packs and pockets. Communal dinner at 55 miles per hour. The bread is homemade. The cheese has no explanation. The tomatoes taste like summer.
"You know what I love about the road?" Cosmic Eddie asks no one in particular. "It's honest. Can't lie to asphalt. Can't pretend with mile markers. You're either moving or you're not. Simple."
We pass Santa Cruz without stopping. The boardwalk lights starting to glow in the twilight. Then on toward Monterey. The bay curving ahead like a promise. Pelicans flying formation just above the waves, prehistoric and perfect.
The light goes from gold to rose to purple. Everyone stops talking. Watching. The juggler holds his oranges still. The dulcimer rests. Even the ham radio goes quiet.
Just us and the bus and the road and the dying light. The ocean breathing beside us. The coastal mountains rising to the east like prayers made of stone.
This morning I was in a chicken coop with a paranoid speed freak. This afternoon Jerry Garcia held my guitar. Tonight I'm on a bus that shouldn't exist, with people I'll never see again, heading toward a tomorrow that hasn't been invented yet.
The road provides. But only if you're willing to receive. Only if you can stop trying to steer and let yourself be driven.
The sun touches the horizon. Everyone holds their breath. That moment. That pause. When the day officially becomes memory and the night becomes possibility.
Then it's gone. And we're still rolling. Into the dark. Into the unknown. Into whatever comes next.
The magic bus carries us forward. No map. No plan. Just south and hope and the next song waiting to be played.
Someone lights a joint. Someone starts a story. Someone finds another beer in the cosmic cooler. The miles keep coming. The coast keeps curving. The bus keeps knowing things we don't.
"Next stop, wherever!" Cosmic Eddie announces. "Maybe Monterey. Maybe Big Sur. Maybe we'll just pull over when the stars tell us to. The bus will let us know."
I think about Jerry. About old wood remembering its songs. About letting things find you. About trusting the road to be smarter than your plans.
Play another song. D again. Always D on the highway. The dulcimer joins. The juggler finds the beat. Mile by mile, note by note, moment by moment.
The lights of Monterey start to twinkle ahead. Steinbeck country. Another kind of California story. The sardines long gone but the dreams still swimming in the bay.
Going somewhere. Going nowhere. Going exactly where we need to be.
The Uncertainty Principle rolls on. Into the night. Into the story. Into the next verse of whatever song we're all trying to play.
The bus rolls on. South. Into the night. Into the story that writes itself.
Cosmic Eddie starts humming. The dulcimer joins. My guitar finds the harmony.
Into the perfect uncertainty of not knowing what comes next.
→ Next Chapter: Chapter 11: ZIP! - "UFO encounter at Big Sur - when reality bends and impossible becomes undeniable"
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📖 Full Table of Contents: Surfing the Interstates: Complete Chapter Guide
🎸 Garcia's Guitar Wisdom: "The wood remembers everything. Every campfire, every wedding, every funeral. It's all in there, waiting." Track this blessed instrument through all three memoir volumes.