Old Damn is just the sort of thing that you know next. Gasoline is what he’s into. Puts the stuff on his fingernails like polish, slides them in and out of the flame so fast they don’t catch fire.

“That’s not cool,” I’ve said to him a hundred times, mesmerized by the blue glinting off his deft fingertips. “You’ll burn yourself down to the quick.”

He just laughs and says, “It’s hot as hell!”

All the neighboring women love Damn. With those greased fingers, he fixes their stairs, roofs, blenders, bunions, hormones. “Whatever’s broke, I doctor it up, good as right,” he says, blackened thumbs proudly stretching his suspenders.

After a day of heavy choring, he sits back, rubs his belly round like a donut and says, “Bring me the gas.” And the women gather round to watch his trick. Clapping like cheerleaders they chant, “Do it again, Damn. Damn Damn, do it again.”