Carl

“Do you remember my name?” she asked.

I had not.

I knew it at one point. She was one of “Gibson’s harem”.

I was down for my 20th or so farewell to the 3rd world tennis club in Tucson and didn’t expect guests at “men’s night.”

Now, I felt like she was shamming me for not knowing (or caring) about the harem’s names.

It was hard to care.

I had not bothered to learn any of the names of the women in Tucson. That way I never have to explain to the wife who is “Christina” or “Deb”.

We called it “Gibson’s harem” in the same way you call a giant man “Tiny”. Gibson hit tennis balls with these 30-something women and did little else. They liked talking sex in front of him to see if they could turn a 50-something-man’s face red like it was his first week in junior high.

They could.

But they didn’t hang out to drink beer with the rest of the boys and generally only wanted to hit with Gibson, the human ball machine.

So in this pregnant pause, I’m making up names in my head — something that starts with “c” or “k”. One of those pre-douchbag millennial names…

“Well, you can call me Carl,” she said. “I’m transitioning.”

A wave of relief came over me. I may never have to fake remember this name again. Then my inbreed distrust kicked in.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Nope.”

I looked at Gibson for a double check.

“Apparently, it’s real,” he said.

Carl had newly shorn hair “he” showed by lifting his baseball hat. Looking more muscular than I remember in the sleeveless winter vest. I hadn’t remembered the nose rings.

“Carl” it is.

We played a set of men’s doubles. Larry, the home brewer, and I against Gibson and Carl.

Every time “Carl” made a good shot, Larry or I would praise and misgender at the same time… “she’s pretty damn quick… he is, he is.”

Old habits die hard. I spent most of the first five games trying to keep my pronouns and Carl references straight.

They were kicking our ass. Up 4-1.

Then Larry and I went away from Gibson, who hasn’t made an error since 2012, and went to the slice.

Dirty little balls that barely clear the net and bounce in fucked up ways — going left or right or hopping straight up or coming back toward the net, or seeming not to bounce at all.

It’s a shot that can work for a while. But then players get used to the spin, get their feet right, step into the ball and smack it back down your throat.

Carl didn’t like the slice.

He started spraying balls all over the court.

Eventually, Larry and I saved some dignity and got the score close. Hell, we may have even won the set. I can only remember the sets I lose badly. Everything else is lost to the fog of home brewed beer in the third world.

Carl left early. Going home to his boyfriend. Brave man for sticking with Carl through the transition.

After all the sets were done and the Larry beer finished, 5 of us survivors headed to the bar for fatty chicken wings and pitchers of mexican beer with a hint of amber.

“So how long has Carl been transitioning,” I asked the group figuring they would know.

“Who the fuck is Carl?”

I looked at Gibson, and the others followed my gaze.

He grinned that little gerbil grin of his that makes his face look a little like a happy kangaroo and finally confessed.

“She was just messing with you. She does shit like that.”

God damn it. I spent 40 minutes feeling guilty for getting all the pronouns wrong…

“What about the hair?”

“She went to India or Jamaica or somewhere where they cut the hair and make extensions,” Gibson’s said. “It’s supposed to be done and back to being long in 3 months…”

Well, I may never live to see it. Men’s tennis night in Tucson has been fading away. Wolf moved to Germany. I moved back full time with the wife in Gilbert. Some players aged out. Some switched to that kids game with a whiffle ball and paddle.

Last visit we had to scrounge to get more than 4 players. Hence the reason “Carl” joined the group. And the reason I may not go back.

So now I’ve got two reasons not to learn another woman’s name in Tucson.

She will forever be “Carl” to me.