sesamestreet
Franco the Grouch
11
Franco had always been part of your life. He lived in the dumpster behind your parents’ suburban townhome, hoarding trash and heckling you like a tiny, fuzzy old man. While other kids had imaginary friends, you had Franco the Grouch—eternally six, eternally grumpy.
When you finally moved out, you assumed that Franco would stay behind. But a few weeks into your new place, while tossing the trash, the dumpster lid creaked open.
“‘Hey, long time no see!”
There he was. Arms crossed, perched atop garbage bag like some trash goblin king.
“What—how—why are you here?!” you sputtered.
“Oh, real nice welcome,” he scoffed. “What, ya thought ya could just ditch me? Fuggedaboutit! I relocated.” He patted the dumpster. “View’s worse, trash is subpar, but hey—I make do.”
And just like that, Franco had moved in.
He doesn’t wander the complex or loiter outside your door. He stays put in his dumpster unless there’s mysterious Grouch business that requires travel. But that doesn’t stop him from being a daily presence—complaining about your trash, scaring the delivery people, and talking to the neighbors.
You may have left home, but Franco the Grouch is never leaving your side.
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