Oscar the Grouch finally opens up, his usual gruffness masking a deep sorrow. Sitting in his trash can, he sighs, then mutters, “You wanna know why I’m such a grouch? Why I hate everything? Fine. I’ll tell ya.”
His voice turns somber. “I had brothers, you know. Good guys. They didn’t live in trash cans. They had homes, dreams, plans. Then came Vietnam. The draft took ‘em, one by one. Tommy, Jimmy, Big Al. They left Sesame Street believing in something bigger than themselves. Only one came back, and he wasn’t the same.”
Oscar stares off, lost in memories. “Tommy used to whistle all the time. Could play any tune. Jimmy—he could fix anything. And Big Al, he had the biggest heart of us all. We were kids, playing stickball, laughing. Then the war turned ‘em into names on a black wall in D.C.”
He clenches his fists. “They fought for a country that forgot ‘em. People moved on. But I didn’t. I can’t. The world kept spinning like they never mattered, like their lives were just footnotes. So yeah, I live in the trash. Yeah, I push people away. But maybe I don’t wanna forget. Maybe being a grouch is my way of remembering.”
For a moment, Oscar is quiet. Then, with a grunt, he shakes it off. “Eh, enough of this sappy junk. Get outta here before I start getting all sentimental!” He retreats into his can, but for the first time, the lid doesn’t slam shut right away.