There’s A Difference Between a Man and a Pair of Pants

Daily writing prompt

What’s the best piece of advice you’ve ever received?

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My best friend was one of the few children in my neighborhood who had a father in the home. Mr. Bubba was a short, roly-poly man who was fierce and demanding. He ran his household so that everyone seemed to fear him, including me. He told me once that because I was at his house so much, I had to help with chores. I admired him for being there for his family, even though I did ask my friend what fathers actually did in the home or were good for especially because I was raised in several single-mother households, and my mother and aunts did everything from working to cleaning and loading coal into the coal house.

I understood the necessity of a father’s advice when my friend brought a guy home whom her father disliked and didn’t trust. She was saddened by his dislike for the fellow, but when he was proven right, we both knew that sometimes a man can know when another man is no good.

One day, he sat us down and explained that not every guy was good for us. He said that we needed to always remember that there was a difference between a man and a pair of pants. I was confused at first because back then, only men wore pants. But he meant that we needed to be able to differentiate between guys who had our best interests at heart and really cared and those who wanted only to get their way and move on.

He listed what we should look for in a real man, like did he work or was he allergic to labor? Did he open doors, or just couldn’t be bothered? How did he speak to his mother and other women in his life? Did he have a plan for the future or was his attitude like what Doris Day sang: que sa ra sa ra?

I didn’t fully understand what he was talking about, but I knew that Mr. Bubba was a real man and not just a pair of pants. One night, I was alone at home, as my mother worked the graveyard shift, and my sister had married and moved away. Suddenly, I heard voices outside my bedroom window, and I peeked and saw a trio of young guys. My first thought was to go out the backdoor, but I felt in my spirit to look first, and there was one or two at the backdoor. I called Mr. Bubba, waking him up in the early morning hours, and I told him what was happening.

The next thing I heard was Mr. Bubba’s shotgun going off. You would have thought those guys climbed over the house, trying to get in their car and leave in a hurry. I don’t think Mr. Bubba slept any more of the night, keeping watch on my apartment. Those guys never returned.

He never even spoke of it, but I knew that he wasn’t just my friend’s protector, but he was mine, too. So that’s what fathers are good for, eh? Yep, Mr. Bubba was small in stature, hardly taller than me, but he was a big man in the community. He was much more than a pair of pants.