Vigilante Gerry

My father went through what I would call his Charles Bronson phase in 1967. It all began one night at The Temple, dad’s local watering hole. His shift at Chrysler’s finished, he just entered the place when he witnessed an old man being robbed by five thugs. He tried to intervene and got a colossal shellacking. But being the urban vigilante he was, got them all back in turn. Each one, mano a mano. I remember kneeling on the passenger’s seat of dad’s 1956 black Dodge, my tiny hands clutching the dash board when he ran over the last one.