Just by luck, I picked good heroes to worship.

Host: The sun was bleeding into the horizon, staining the sky with streaks of amber and crimson. The old highway diner stood at the edge of nowhere — a neon sign buzzing, half its letters dead, flickering the word “Open” like a faint heartbeat.

Inside, the air smelled of coffee, fried onions, and memory. A jukebox hummed quietly, playing a song from another time.

Jack sat at the corner booth, his coat still dusty from the road, his grey eyes reflecting the glow of the last light outside. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her coffee — slowly, absently — as though the small motion could somehow reveal the answer to something larger.

Pinned to the wall above their table was a faded newspaper clipping, dated 1977 — the face of Charles Kuralt smiling beside the words:
“Just by luck, I picked good heroes to worship.”

The two had been silent for a while. The quote had found them both, like an unexpected guest joining their table.

Jack: “Good heroes to worship, huh? I wonder if anyone even knows what that means anymore.”

Jeeny: “You think no one has heroes?”

Jack: “I think people have idols. Not heroes. There’s a difference.”

Host: His voice was low, rough like a man who had seen too much disillusionment to trust easily. He leaned back, his hands wrapped around a chipped mug, the steam rising like the last remnant of warmth in a cold world.

Jeeny: “So what’s the difference?”

Jack: “Heroes inspire. Idols consume. Heroes make you want to become better; idols just make you want to possess their image. Heroes are human; idols are mirrors for vanity.”

Jeeny: “That’s a cynical way to see it.”

Jack: “No — it’s a realistic way. Look around. Kids don’t worship courage anymore; they worship followers. Nobody remembers the teacher who changed their life, but they all remember the influencer who changed their algorithm.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes narrowed, her brows furrowing with quiet conviction. She set the spoon down, the clink echoing in the still air.

Jeeny: “You think we were any better? Every generation picks its saints and sinners. Some worship movie stars, some worship kings, some worship the idea of rebellion itself. The difference isn’t in the hero — it’s in what we need from them.”

Jack: “Need? We don’t need heroes, Jeeny. We need accountability. Heroes give people excuses to wait — to expect someone else to fix what’s broken.”

Jeeny: “No. Heroes remind us what it means to fix things. They don’t do the work for us — they give us courage to try. When Rosa Parks refused to move, she didn’t save the world. She just showed it could be saved.”

Host: Jack looked away, his jaw tightening. Outside, a truck rumbled past, its headlights briefly illuminating the window, like a flash of unwanted truth.

Jack: “That’s one in a million, Jeeny. Most people’s ‘heroes’ are just illusions that let them feel moral without being moral. They’ll quote Mandela, wear a Che Guevara shirt, and then step over a homeless guy on the sidewalk.”

Jeeny: “And yet — without Mandela, without Che, without those symbols — maybe we’d forget what resistance looks like. Even if some people wear the shirt for fashion, others read the story and change. That’s the quiet miracle of a true hero.”

Host: The neon light flickered again, a faint hum filling the space. Somewhere in the kitchen, the cook banged a pot, then cursed softly. The din of life went on — oblivious to the gravity of their words.

Jack: “You sound like you need to believe in them.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I do. Maybe belief itself is what keeps us human. You see a world of hypocrisy — I see a world still trying to remember what virtue looks like.”

Jack: “Virtue? You think that still exists in politics? In corporations? Even in art, everything’s a product now. Every ‘hero’ is branded, marketed, monetized.”

Jeeny: “So what, we give up? We stop believing because someone profits off the idea of goodness? That’s cowardice, Jack. The fact that heroes can be exploited doesn’t make them any less real.”

Host: Her words struck hard. The silence that followed was thick, the kind that fills your lungs before you realize you’re drowning in it.

Jack: “You really think it’s just luck, like Kuralt said — that we just pick good heroes and it changes us?”

Jeeny: “Luck plays its part. But it’s also about recognition. The kind of soul you have determines the kind of heroes you notice. A greedy man will worship wealth; a kind one will admire compassion. We choose what we see as heroic.”

Host: Outside, the last light died, and the sky turned a deep blue, almost black. The diner was now lit only by the neon glow and the faint shine from a jukebox in the corner.

Jack: “You make it sound like heroes are mirrors — reflections of what we hope to be.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s exactly what they are. The right heroes don’t make us followers — they make us uncomfortable. They make us confront our own laziness, our compromises. That’s how you know they’re good ones.”

Jack: “Then maybe I didn’t pick good heroes. Maybe I picked convenient ones — the ones that didn’t demand too much from me.”

Jeeny: “That’s the beauty of it. You can change them. You can choose again.”

Host: A brief pause, then a faint smile crept across Jack’s face — weary, reluctant, but real. He leaned forward, the light from the neon catching in his eyes, making them gleam like a man staring at something just beyond reach.

Jack: “You know, when I was young, I thought my hero was my father. He worked himself to the bone — thought duty was everything. But he never lived. He never laughed, never dreamed. I used to think that was strength.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think it was fear. He was afraid to want something for himself. He sacrificed, but he never rebelled. I don’t know if that’s heroism or tragedy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. Sometimes our heroes are warnings, not examples.”

Host: The words settled between them like the last embers of a dying fire. Outside, a dog barked, then quieted. The world seemed to pause.

Jeeny: “You know who my hero was?”

Jack: “Who?”

Jeeny: “My grandmother. She worked in a factory her whole life. Never traveled, never got famous. But she’d take her lunch break to teach neighborhood kids how to read. She didn’t talk about changing the world — she just did it, one small act at a time. Heroes don’t need stages, Jack. They just need conscience.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Kuralt meant. It’s not about luck — it’s about attention. The people worth admiring are all around us. We just don’t look long enough.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We don’t need more heroes — we need better eyes.”

Host: The jukebox switched songs — a slow, nostalgic tune, half lost to the crackle of old vinyl. The neon sign hummed faintly above them.

Jack: “So maybe we are lucky, then — that we had anyone to look up to at all.”

Jeeny: “Luck, and maybe a bit of grace.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, and Jack nodded, their hands both resting on the table, fingers almost touching, the moment fragile, real.

Outside, a truck passed, its headlights spilling into the diner, illuminating the poster on the wall — Kuralt’s gentle smile, faded but steady, as if listening.

Jack: “To good heroes, then — and to better choices.”

Jeeny: “And to the luck that helps us find them.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked softly. The diner had grown quiet, but not empty — it breathed with the faint hum of a shared understanding.

Outside, the night settled over the highway, endless and open. The stars came out, one by one, like old souls watching from a distance — the kind of heroes who ask for nothing, but still shine all the same.