Heroes

My father always told me stories about running from the law for making what he called white lighting. He would come and go as he pleased, for some reason I always imagined the this lightning in a literal sense. When he was gone I conjured images of Zeus forging lightning high atop Mount Olympus. For obvious reasons, I was wrong, but damned if I didn't think it was heroic in my early years. All of this comes to mind at a rather inappropriate time, if not ironic, a trunk full of crank, a house forty miles away that is probably still on fire, and at least five cops on my tail, it's hard to count at a moment like this.
Even as I became old enough to realize that my father wasn't hammering out lightning bolts for months at a time, I still saw a man standing up to the law, like the Bandit sticking it to Beuford T. Justice in Smokey and the Bandit. Daring escapes and amicable rants between him and the dastardly and incompetent officers, it seemed so glamorous. I could never understand what made mamma cry when daddy would go away, god, I was dull. Something tells me I can't be all that heroic in the boy's eyes, "tweak" just doesn't resonate with a little boy like "white lightning".
I remember the last time I saw my father, I was ten, we were separated by an inch of glass, I had no idea it would be the last time. I told him about Albert Fisch throwing me in the mud. I didn't think it would be long, the good guy never stays down for long. I'm starting to realize that he was no hero, sad it dawns on me as I realize just how much of a failure I am. It doesn't matter at this point, the boy is far away, and after this ends I won't be seeing anyone for a very long time.