Tommy had been waiting in line for what felt like forever. His mother stood beside him, arms folded, trying to look patient but glancing at her watch every other minute. He could feel her irritation vibrating off her like static, but he didn’t care. Not today.
Today, Tommy was going to meet Ozzy Osbourne. The Prince of Darkness himself. The man whose voice had roared from the speakers of his secondhand Walkman every night when the lights went out and the world pressed too close.
The record store smelled like dust and plastic wrap. Posters of Black Sabbath and Ozzy’s solo albums covered the windows, blotting out the sun. Inside, people fidgeted with records they didn’t plan to buy, just so they had something to do with their hands.
Tommy clutched his battered copy of Blizzard of Ozz to his chest. He’d saved up for weeks to buy it secondhand from a kid at school. It wasn’t much, but it was his—scratches, smudged liner notes, and all.
Ahead of him, the line shuffled forward. He could see glimpses of Ozzy between heads and shoulders—wild hair, round glasses perched low on his nose, a grin that looked equal parts mischief and exhaustion. He was signing albums and posters, shaking hands, nodding along to people’s gushing praise. Every so often, he’d glance at the store manager who hovered nearby, probably counting minutes like they were coins.
Tommy’s mom leaned down. “Five more minutes, okay? Then we have to go. Your dad’s shift starts soon, and I need the car.”
Tommy nodded, even though his throat felt too tight to speak. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and ran his thumb along the record sleeve. Please don’t let him leave before I get there, he prayed silently to whoever might listen.
Finally, there were only two people ahead of him—a man in a denim vest plastered with band patches, and a woman who had so much makeup on she looked like she might melt under the store lights. They both chattered away at Ozzy while he scribbled his name in looping letters.
And then it was Tommy’s turn.
He stepped up to the table and for a second, he just stared. Up close, Ozzy looked older than he did in the posters—lines carved deep around his eyes, hair not quite as black as it looked on the album covers. But he also looked kind. And tired. And real.
Ozzy raised his eyebrows and gave Tommy a crooked grin. “Hey there, little man. What’ve you got for me?”
Tommy placed the album on the table with shaking hands. “Could you… could you sign it, please?”
Ozzy flipped the album over, eyeing the worn cover with something that looked like fondness. “This one’s seen some life, eh?”
Tommy laughed, a nervous squeak. “I play it every night.”
Ozzy uncapped his marker. “That’s what I like to hear.” He scribbled his name across the front, then paused. “What’s your name, mate?”
“Tommy.”
Ozzy added To Tommy—Stay Crazy! under his signature. He handed the record back and fixed Tommy with a look that felt like it saw right through him. “How old are you, Tommy?”
“Thirteen.”
Ozzy chuckled. “Lucky number. You play guitar?”
“Yeah—well, I’m trying to learn. I’m not very good yet.”
Ozzy leaned closer, dropping his voice like he was telling a secret. “Don’t let anyone tell you you’re no good. You keep playing. Doesn’t matter how bad it sounds at first. Just keep going.”
Tommy nodded so hard his glasses nearly fell off. His mouth felt dry, but he had to say it. He didn’t know if he’d ever get this chance again. His heart pounded against his ribs.
“Mister Osbourne,” he blurted. “I—I just wanted to say… I might not ever see you again. But I want you to know you’re my favorite musician. Ever. When things are… when they’re bad, your music makes it better. So… thank you.”
The store noise seemed to fade. Ozzy’s grin softened. He reached across the table, laying a ringed hand over Tommy’s small one. His fingers were warm, the rings cool metal against Tommy’s skin.
“You made my day, Tommy,” Ozzy said, voice rough but gentle. “Don’t you forget—music’s magic. And you got it in you too, yeah? Promise me you’ll keep playing.”
Tommy nodded again, eyes burning. “I promise.”
Ozzy squeezed his hand, then let go. “Good lad. Now get out there and make some noise.”
Tommy stepped away from the table, album clutched to his chest like a holy relic. He turned back once. Ozzy gave him a thumbs-up, then turned to the next fan.
Outside, the sun was setting behind the record store windows. His mother tapped the car keys against her palm, ready to scold him for taking too long. But Tommy didn’t care.
He held the album close, Ozzy’s voice echoing in his mind: Don’t let anyone tell you you’re no good.
As they walked to the car, Tommy decided that tomorrow, he’d plug in the old guitar his uncle gave him. He’d crank the amp as loud as it would go. And no mat
ter how bad it sounded, he’d keep playing.
Just like Ozzy said.
