Ozzy
“ETA…55 minutes. I repeat, E-T-A…55 minutes!”
My son’s teen rock band had started out on the Beatles, but then got into heavier and darker groups—Zeppelin, Deep Purple, Metallica, Black Sabbath, and some newer-era Hardcore and Screamo bands.
So when we heard that Ozzy Osborne was doing a book signing in San Francisco, my son asked if I’d take him. The place had previously hosted the likes of pre-president Obama, Wynton Marsalis, Isabel Allende, and other celeb authors, so it seemed like a surreal but somehow perfect place for Ozzy.
I figured there’d be a long line, so we got there early. But I had no idea. The crowd was five-heads deep, stretching the entire back length of the SF Ferry Building, and then snaking out to the street in front. It had all the pomp and orchestration of a presidential appearance. Security men in dark suits prowled the ferry dock expanse, messaging one another through crackling walkie-talkies—“ETA update…I repeat, E-T-A update!”
Meanwhile, young women working the event made their way down the line, prepping us for what might well have been an audience with a king. “You may take a picture during the signing,” they intoned, “but do not request a personal message, do not converse with Ozzy, do not step alongside him, and do not touch him in any way.”
It was clear we had time to kill, so I started people watching. In front of us, two older-teen Goth guys psyched one another up for their royal audience. “I wonder if he talks about Aleister Crowley?” asked one, flipping through the Ozzy book they’d bought to have signed. They wore matching knee-length trench coats, black boots tipped in chrome, dyed-black hair, eyeliner, black lipstick, and dangling silver crosses and pentagrams hanging low at the neck. “We should ask him his favorite incantation,” said the other intently, “screw them about not talking.”
I heard the security men crackling again on their wirelesses—the Ozzy ETA was now significantly delayed. We’d already stood in line so long, I finally had to pee, and told my son to save my place.
When I returned, I noticed the taller of the two Goths checking me out. A few minutes later, he glanced back, and then turned to face me—his gaze penetrating, somehow knowing.
“Excuse me, sir…but, I think a sea gull went on your shoulder.”
He looked at me, a seeming expression of concern on his face. “…Would you like me to wipe it away?”
It took me a moment to even process what he was talking about, what was being offered, and why. His eyes seemed expectant, almost disturbingly so. An eternity seemed to pass between us.
“Um…I think I’m good,” I said finally, “I’ll take care of it.”
I went to get a napkin at the nearby Starbucks, then came back, asking my son to help me with it. The Goth glanced over as I returned, but then broke eye contact, turning back to his companion. I handed my son the napkin, asking him to see what was there, and to wipe it off.
“…There’s nothing there,” he whispered to me.
“Are you sure?” I whispered back. “Check again.”
“Absolutely,” he said finally. We looked at one another, then back to the Goths.
I told my brother about it later. “That’s how it works,” he said, matter-of-factly. “They have to lay hands on you to exert their influence…and you have to invite that touch, or engage in some other form of meaningful interaction.”
He paused. “It’s a good thing you followed your intuition.”
I thought he was joking at first…
“A few years back,” he continued, “I went on a Voodoo Tour of New Orleans. At the exit, there was a small statue of a demonic-looking figure, with a collection-bin beneath it, supposedly to help fund the tours. The statue looked both mirthful, and somehow menacing—with eyes that seemed on-fire, boring down into you. Most just dropped a little change into the bin, but I hesitated. Something about the figure creeped-me-out.
‘Don’t worry,’ the tour guide told me, ‘it’s not dark or Satanic or anything. It’s just Loki, a mythical trickster.’ I looked into his eyes…as the irritated line of people behind me began to build. And I almost put in some money, but something held me back. ‘No thanks,’ I told the guy finally. He held my gaze. ‘…You’ll be sorry,’ he said, matter-of-factly. And you know what, he was right. Just a few weeks later, on a business trip to Malaysia, I ate something bad. I was literally sick for several years afterward. But I’m glad I did what I did. I followed my intuition…and so did you.”
My brother looked back at me. “I paid a price…but it was better than the alternative.”
Steven Meloan‘s fiction has appeared in SOMA Magazine, the Sonoma Valley Sun, Lummox Press, and Roadside Press, as well as at Litquake, Quiet Lightning, Library Girl, The Rapp Saloon Poetry Reading series, and other literary events. His short fiction collection, St. James Infirmary, was released in 2023 on Roadside Press, and a collaboration collection with his brother Michael, The Kind the Pharaohs Try, was released in 2024 on Naked Light Press. He is currently working on a collection of poetry. He is a recovered software developer, and a former busker in London, Paris, and Berlin.
