The Three Times Oscar Left Me
- Jan 28, 2023
- 4 min read
by Tara Campbell
I.
“This is unsustainable,” he said. “I have to think of my career.”
I knocked and knocked and knocked on his lid, but he wouldn’t let me in.
II.
“But I’ve been trying to make you miserable,” I said. “I’ve done everything: jealous pouting, baseless accusations, shit-talking behind your back, snooping on your phone. What is it going to take?”
His head hung over the rim of his can, his eyelids at half-mast. “I’m sorry, baby, but it’s no good. I’m still too happy because I know you’re trying to be as awful as possible. On purpose — for us.”
He looked toward the soundstage as the faint opening jingle drifted over to us: Sunny day, sweeping the clouds away…
I reached for his scraggly green hand, but he snatched it away. I took a calming breath as he snapped his mouth shut and lowered his woolly brown eyebrows — trying, I knew, to gin up the rage that had made him famous.
Then he slumped. “It’s not working. I’m just — I feel too good when you’re around.”
“What if I slammed the lid on your fingers?” I asked.
He sighed, then nodded. “Please.”
I grabbed the handle on top of his can, and he began to duck down into it, leaving his fingers draped over the edge. But before I could slam the lid, he popped back up and looked me in the eyes.
“While I’m shooting,” he said, “there’s something I’d like you to do for me.”
“Anything.”
“Don’t be here when I get back.” He popped down into his can, clutching the rim. Waiting.
Maria yelled over to us; Oscar had to get in place for his scene.
I pretended they were having an affair and slammed the lid as hard as I could.
Twice.
And again.
Oscar’s fingers trembled on the rim.
I glanced up to find Maria and Bob looking over at us, shaking their heads.
I slammed the lid once more and walked away.
III.
“You’re gonna flip when you hear his real voice,” Oscar said, steering me across the ballroom. “But he’s just as nice in person as he is on the show.”
The feel of Oscar’s plush green palm on the small of my back made me want to ditch the event and head home, just the two of us. Yet here we were, swanning through a sea of Polyfoam and fleece, yet another Emmy to be celebrated.
“Honey, meet Elmo.”
The crimson charmer raised my hand to his lips, murmuring “Enchanté.” Oscar was right; Elmo’s voice was full and deep. He was a fuzzy, red Barry White.
“I’ve heard so much about you,” he said. “I’m so pleased to finally meet you.”
As we chatted, I tried to focus on Oscar’s lively banter, his expressive eyebrows jumping up and down, his hand resting on my hip.
But that voice. All that bass.
Within weeks Elmo and I would find ourselves sitting at a candlelit table for two in the basement of the Canary Club, drinking sidecars and laughing about Oscar’s nasally little whine. I told myself I was really doing it for him; that when word got back to Oscar, the rage would be good for his career.
Later that night, when I ran my hands over Elmo’s pelt, I imagined it green.
And when the rumors hit the trades, Oscar closed his lid to me again.
Of course it didn’t last with Elmo; he was too damn nice. It was over in a matter of weeks, and he was so good-natured about the breakup, we sealed it with a handshake and a friendship song. I ran back to Oscar then, banging on the lid for him to forgive me.
“Oscar, why?”
No response. I ignored Luis’ side-eye and banged on Oscar’s lid again.
“You could have given me Grover, Big Bird, anyone,” I yelled. “Why Elmo?”
But I knew why: he hadn’t been leading me toward anyone in particular that night — he’d been leading me away from himself. And it wasn’t just about making himself jealous. It was because it was a completely meaningless sacrifice. Elmo never actually needed me for his joy — he’d be that way no matter what — and the senselessness of losing happiness to someone like that would piss Oscar off forever.
I got creative with it, expanded my repertoire, chose partners with frazzled topknots, velvety horns, feathers and capes and skins of all colors, moving on from one character to the next, eventually going beyond the whole franchise, all the while throwing my head back and pretending to run my fingers through the scraggly green fur I wanted most. I missed Oscar, but when I watched him rage on screen, I knew it was all for the best.
The tabloids characterized it as a string of destructive behaviors. And maybe it was — what price the fame of your favorite lover.
I still miss him. But on his worst days, when his anger loses its edge and droops into mere gloominess, I know what to do. I go coy with reporters, get myself ambushed by paparazzi in Ibiza wearing a purple bikini and canoodling on a beach towel with Barney, that happy-ass motherfucker.
“No, I don’t love you,” I tell him, “and you only think you love me.”
But he keeps on singing the song anyway. He’s so cheerful it makes my teeth itch, but when I close my eyes and let those stubby felt fingers walk up and down my stomach, I can almost smell the synthetic stink of a trash can, and I see green behind my eyelids, and I know that this is the most loving thing I can do.
Tara Campbell is a writer, teacher, Kimbilio Fellow, fiction co-editor at Barrelhouse, and graduate of American University’s MFA in Creative Writing. She’s the recipient of the following awards from the DC Commission on the Arts and Humanities: the Larry Neal Writers’ Award, the Mayor’s Arts Award for Outstanding New Artist, and annual Arts and Humanities Fellowships from 2018–2022. In addition to trampset, publication credits include SmokeLong Quarterly, Masters Review, Wigleaf, Booth, Electric Literature’s Commuter, and CRAFT Literary. She’s the author of a novel and four multi-genre collections including her newest, Cabinet of Wrath: A Doll Collection.
