Character Sketch for Arthur

 Superior Donuts by Tracy Letts

I’m the proprietor of a lackluster donut shop in 1988 and have been for a long time now.  I was born on Xmas eve, 1948, raised in Chicago, but not the South side.  My early life was normal.

Nothing traumatic happened to me until my late teens when I was peripherally involved in one of the 1966 riots.  I was mixed in with the rioters and an Irish policeman busted my skull with a night stick and worked me over.  No serious physical injuries but it had a profound effect on my outlook on life.  Once a guy has been beat up, it’s normal to turn into a rabbit.

It was shortly after this event that I received my notice to report for duty and go to Viet Nam.  Well, I took the bus to Toronto and evaded the draft.  I’ve lived with that.

The reason for evading the draft was more that I feared what might happen to me.  I could have cited a lot of bullshit reasons, but I’ve come to realize that it was simply being scared.  This has shown up often in my life since and I think it all goes back to that fateful night the cop whacked me on the head.

If I look in the mirror, which I do as infrequently as possible, I see a somewhat unkempt image.  It is unshaven but not to grow a beard.  I see the need for a haircut.  I’d have to turn my head a little to see my ponytail, it’s a statement.  I can’t see it, but I probably don’t smell all that good.  Not something I would know since my smell is saturated with me.   I align with hippies, “peace man.”

Anyone critically familiar with me would say, “Arthur’s a scaredy cat who just doesn’t care.”  It sort of shows in almost all my dealings with people.  Even those that could occur, don’t because of it.  I don’t normally take the initiative with people, and I tend to let them have their way with me.

My business would indicate to an impartial observer a decided lack of interest in making any more of it than there already is.  A storefront, a counter with stools to accommodate 6 people, a register with another smaller, waist-high, counter for take-out.  We sell coffee and donuts, superior donuts.

What makes them superior is the recipe that was handed down to me.  They are the best anywhere and there are a lot of people who come back again and again to buy them.

Then, the other night, someone broke in and vandalized the place and spray painted the word, “PUSSY” in red on the wall.  I called the police, but they didn’t seem to offer anything but a little sarcastic sympathy.  One officer does seem a little concerned and has been in several times to touch base.

I recently lost my counterperson and would replace him with the right person.  So far no one has applied, and I haven’t really been asking around all that much.  I just don’t care.

Who do we have here?  Some kid just walked into my shop.