GERONIMO REX

I want to write about Barry Hannah. What do I write about when I write about Barry Hannah, hummmmm.
He's a writer, a real one -- I don't know why he came to mind now. I took a course from him at Ole Miss -- writing short stories, and I don't know if he read much of what we wrote for our assignments, but I didn't pay attention to that back then.
Later he got cancer.
He beat it.
He always used to play tennis at the city courts by the university. I played all the time, too -- and we saw each other there a lot, sometimes at strange hours like 10am on a schoolday Tuesday or 4am Sunday, but it was mostly in the late afternoon -- normal time. And I'd see his smooth, old-fashioned one-handed backhand. And he'd tell me that he didn't understand my two-handed backhand -- thoughtfully -- while looking into space -- the way that someone would tell you they didn't understand suffering or war. It was great. And he'd smoke during court changes and drink from tennis ball cans filled with wine -- I looked over at his court one day and called him the picture of health.
And that time when he did a reading at Square Books, I really don't know why I jumped up from my seat and shouted --
"I love you, Barry!"
The bookstore crowd was silent -- everyone was looking at me -- it was two or three seconds of awkward silence.
But Barry -- at the podium, ready to talk about his book -- he ended the tension.
"But is your love complete?"