Jerry O'Neal owned a ramshackle roadhouse along the DC/Maryland line called The Dipsy Doodle. Rock and roll was just getting started and he had a hard time figuring out how to book his talent. Did he stick with the country acts, or step out on a limb and give the rockabilly groups a chance? The kids, desperate for a good time and tired of hearing about how hard their parents' lives had been, upped the attendance. But the older folks who liked the Grand Ole Opry didn't fight and bust the place up as much. It was a tough call. He rode his Harley up I-81 to the hillclimb event in Wilkes-Barre, with big Larry Lampkin on the back. They pitched a tent and bought two six-packs from the canteen.

"I got problems, Larry, lemme tell you. The Dipsy Doodle is barely hanging in there. Then there's women. I met a gal named Wilhelmina, she's the rookie of the year at the Roller Derby. Bunch of red curls, a little young, but a real sweetie. I drove her over to meet Ma and go out to dinner. Ma's in the back seat of the Chevy and Wilhelmina's riding shotgun. Right away I get this bad feeling, like my mother just does not like this gal. So out of nowhere, as if the devil himself put her up to it, Wilhelmina leans around to Ma and says, 'I'm gonna marry your son!' Well, Ma grabs her by the curls with both hands and nearly yanks her over the seat, yelling, 'you ain't marrying my son, you tramp!' That was the end for Wilhelmina. Just when I was thinking she might put out, too. I've had nothing but bad luck for a good long spell, I tell you."

"Jerry, you don't want my advice when it comes to women. But if you're asking me, I'd tell you to take up the banjo or guitar. That's what I did. Ladies like pickers." Larry was a hell of a musician, but he was a butterball and no ladies' man. Still, he usually had a woman in his life, so I had to listen to him. Occasionally he played at The Dipsy Doodle, but normally he performed at places that paid better.

"I can't decide what kind of music to book. This rock and roll, I just don't know. It sounds like a bunch of noise to me. Guess I ain't young anymore, thirty's coming up in a few years."

"I can't say as I like it, either. It's so damn loud. But seriously, get yourself a guitar and learn some songs."

"Well, I'll see what the receipts look like on Monday. If the take is good, I'll pick one up. I know you've been bugging me about it."

"Don't get a hunk of junk, get a good one. A Gibson or a Martin." They got drunk under the stars, then watched the hillclimbs the following day.

When Jerry got home, he saw the take for the weekend was good and nothing got broken. So he went out and bought a Gibson J-45. He sat next to the radio in The Dipsy Doodle's kitchen and tried to work out some songs. It was harder than he thought. He could play melodies with no problem, it was finding the chords that was challenging.

Larry dropped by and taught him the main chords, the "cowboy chords." With that little bit of learning, Jerry's playing took off. He bought an instruction book and learned more chords. In a few months, he could strum to all the songs that were on the radio.

"You got a knack for it," said Larry. "I thought you might. You do good at anything you put your mind to, that's why I thought you'd be good at guitar."

"I can't believe it, I feel like I could get up on stage. All I need's a singer."

"Didn't that gal Wilhelmina sing? You should call her back."

"She told me 'never to call her.' She meant it."

"Women soften up with time. Give her a call."

Jerry thought about it all, and he started to realize he could save a whole lot of money if he himself supplied the entertainment at the Dipsy Doodle. The excitement of the idea pushed him to call Wilhelmina.

"What do you want, Jerry?"

"Wilhelmina, I'm calling you strictly on business. I'm getting a musical act together and I need a singer. I've heard you sing to yourself, you got a sweet voice. I think you could front the group."

"Well, I busted up my knee real bad and can't skate, so singing sounds good. What's it pay?

"At first, we'd be playing for tips. But if we get a name and start charging a cover, the money might get to look real good."

"Tips? I was rookie of the year."

"Wilhelmina, honey, all the big stars started this way. It's called paying your dues."

"Well, okay. Those tips better pay my rent, though."

Jerry got a photographer he knew to take some professional photos of him and Wilhelmina, and he made them the headliners (and only act) at their very first Dipsy Doodle show. Larry found a drummer and bass player who were not very good, but who knew all the country standards. More importantly, they worked cheap.

Jerry was starting to like how this was all working out. Most bands struggled to find practice space, but Jerry had the Dipsy Doodle for it. And Wilhelmina was back in the picture, sort of.

The only problem was the crowds. They were hardly attracting anyone at first. But in time, they started bringing people in. It wasn't like what Larry was pulling in, but he was a guy on the verge of getting signed somewhere. Everybody knew it.

Jerry realized that if he and Wilhelmina were going to get some real buzz, he needed to write a song. Something people would pay to hear. Could he write a song? He settled on penning something about cars and women, the two subjects closest to his heart. The chorus went:

My baby is a custom fit, my baby is a custom fit...

Jerry tried singing lead for the first time. He wasn't half bad. Wilhelmina sang harmony. It had a rockabilly feel to it, and it got people up and dancing. Pretty soon, it got requests, and the tip jar started filling up. One night, a guy from Splash records approached Jerry. He wanted to cut a 45! Wilhelmina was very ticked off that she didn't get to sing lead on their first record, but she settled down about it. Jerry promised he'd write her another tune. By this time, they were an item once more. He loved getting his hands in those curls again.

Jerry drove to Waxie Maxie's, just to see his 45 in the record bins. He found it buried toward the back of the store. On the other hand, there were big, splashy signs for a group called The Nagle Brothers. They had recorded his song!

He went into a booth and listened to it. There were saxes and electric guitars - it was a much better production than Jerry's record. He realized he had been taken. He had just signed form after form, he hadn't read a word of it. When he bought The Dipsy Doodle, he had a banker he trusted. This record producer was obviously a shyster.

He really had a problem now. He had promised Wilhelmina that "Custom Fit" was going to bring her the moon ball. The only thing he knew to do was write another song. He wanted it to be a love song. About her. Somehow he ended up writing a jazzy ballad with major seventh chords. It was called "The Taste of Her Name."

All that she told me was one little word

That which she goes by, is known in this world

That's all I needed to take her in, savoring the sips

'Cause I got the taste, the taste of her name on my lips

Jerry didn't know how this song came out of him. But he had a feeling that he had written something special. He got very protective of it and was reluctant to even sing it for Wilhelmina. But finally, he did.

"That's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard," said Wilhelmina. She brushed a tear aside. "I don't think I could sing it, but it's beautiful. We've got to make sure you don't get cheated this time. You should talk to Larry. He's got a record contract now, he could help you. You shoulda talked to him the first time."

"I was full of myself. I won't make the same mistake twice."

Jerry met Larry and sang the song for him.

"Jerry, this song is really good, but it ain't country. I don't know how I could help you with this. It's a song for somebody like Tony Bennett. I just don't know anyone outside of the world of country music. You need to find a singer and a piano player, then make a demo. It's going to cost you some money."

"Money I don't have."

"I'll keep an ear out, that's the best I can say. But I wouldn't hold your breath."

The only way Jerry could think of raising the kind of money he would need was to sell The Dipsy Doodle. That put a big knot in his stomach. He thought of selling his Harley, but even that wouldn't cover the costs. He tried getting a bank loan and the loan clerks laughed. Not in front of him, but Jerry figured they snickered plenty after he left the branch.

"You just need to sing the song at The Dipsy Doodle," said Wilhelmina.

"I can't sing a jazz ballad to a bunch of hillbillies."

"Why not? You're a hillbilly yourself."

"I am, you're right, but I'm not even the right kind of singer for this song. I need a crooner."

Three months went by and Jerry was tempted often to sing "The Taste of Her Name" at the Dipsy Doodle. But he never did. Then Larry called him from Rochester. He was touring, promoting his first album for RCA.

"I'll tell you, Jerry, there's some hard-assed people in this business. I'm learning that every damned day since getting signed. But here's the good news. If you can make a demo, I can put it in the hands of the right people."

"Yeah, that demo is the big problem. I ain't got the money for it. Even if I sold the Harley, it wouldn't nearly cover the cost."

"I wish I could help, but I'm out here trying to get people to buy my records and I'm living on a thread. Can your Ma help you?"

"She gets money from the miners for Pop's having died, but it ain't a lot. If I asked her, she'd whomp me upside the head. As it is, I slip her ten bucks whenever I drop by and the kitchen cupboard is starting to look bare."

"Well, come and see me perform. We're in the area in a couple months, check the papers."

Jerry's mind was always on the demo, but he had a new problem. He had to find a new bass player and drummer. The old guys were tired of playing for peanuts. He started going to the nearby clubs, looking for some fellas who would work cheap. He checked the jazz clubs, too - sometimes jazzheads liked playing country on the side. Jerry finally found a couple of suckers, nice kids, though dumb about anything except music. Since he was near the Blue Mirror, he decided to go in there and hear some top-flight musicians for a change.

That little detour brought with it a huge shock. He couldn't believe his eyes. Ma was there, sitting all cozy with none other than Angelo Tremonti, the wrestler. Tremonti was too old to be rasslin', Jerry had always thought, but he was the right age for Ma, apparently. And Ma evidently still looked good to Mr. Tremonti. It was hard for Jerry to ever think his Ma was a looker, but there she was, flirting it up with this Italian giant.

Had she ever seen him wrestle before? It wasn't likely, because Tremonti was a bad guy. A dirty wrestler. He always had some foreign object cupped in his hand that he would rake across his opponent's eyes. Then he'd quickly conceal it in the waistband of his trunks and wave his outstretched hands above his head, pleading innocence to the referee. Ma wouldn't get near him if she saw that performance. Jerry tried to leave unnoticed, but Ma caught sight of him, called him over and introduced him.

"I've been trying to get your mother to come see me wrestle sometime, Jerry, maybe you can talk her into it." Tremonti spoke calmly and clearly, so unlike the growling menace he became when he stalked the ring.

"Well, I'll take her sometime. Are you wrestling next week?"

"Tuesday night, at Turner's Arena. I'll leave two tickets for O'Neal at will call. Please make sure to come."

"We'll be there," Jerry assured him. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Tremonti."

Jerry stopped after he left the Blue Mirror and shook his head. That had counted as one of the most whacked-out things that he had ever encountered. It definitely beat the hair-pull of Wilhelmina. Ma had been a pistol when they were young, his Dad had once told him - there appeared to be a slug or two left in the cylinder.

Jerry took Ma to the matches. When it came time for Angelo Tremonti to wrestle, he was his usual dirty self. Ma didn't say anything, but Jerry had a pretty good idea she was steaming. She didn't say much. Jerry dropped her off with hardly a word between the two of them. He was sure Angelo Tremonti was going to get an earful.

The following week, Jerry was rehearsing the new band at The Dipsy Doodle. A car pulled up that he didn't recognize. It was a Lincoln Continental and out popped Angelo Tremonti. He knocked at the front and Jerry let him in.

"Jerry, I'm so glad I found you. I've driven by here so many times hoping you'd be here. Your mother told me you owned this place. You've got to help me. I knock at her door, she won't let me in. I ask her why, she said, 'you're a filthy fighter, you crumbum! Get away from my door!' Jerry, I worship your mother. I told her, it's not real. It's just pretend. She doesn't believe me. You have to help me. I'm a man in love. Please."

"Angelo, you've unleashed the Irish in my mother and it won't go away easily. But one thing. Wrestling is fake? I've always wondered, but I was never sure."

"It's absolutely, one hundred percent, phony. I thought everybody knew that."

"Yeah, yeah, I suspected it, but somehow..." It was one of those things that Jerry had never been sure about. Some people said wrestling was fake, but lots of people say dumb things all the time. Nobody Jerry ever knew to be savvy about the world had said that wrestling was fake. Now he knew. It floored him.

"Please talk to your mother, Jerry. I will do anything, anything to get her back. I'm old, I've outlived my time in the ring. I shoulda retired ten years ago but the money was too good to pass up. Now, I just want someone to relax with and enjoy life."

"I'll do what I can, Angelo."

"Thank you, thank you, Jerry. If you succeed, I will owe you the world. The world. Angelo Tremonti keeps his promises."

It took a lot for Jerry to convince his mother that wrestling was fake. She was embarrassed to realize it, as was Jerry. But he sat in her apartment with her for two hours until she finally gave in about Angelo.

"I know he's a good man," Ma said. "I know it in my heart. People can't fool me. Even that shameless hussy Wilhelmina. I realize she's good for you. Let's us both be happy, for once."

Angelo Tremonti was so grateful. He had promised Jerry the world, so Jerry told him what the world was to him. It was getting that demo out. Angelo financed it and Larry Lampkin got it in the hands of the right people. But it never got off the ground. Like most demos in the music business, it just died on the shelf. Occasionally, Jerry's wife Wilhelmina plays it at home while they sing to their sweet baby girl in her high chair. They're hoping that the two of them have combined to create a musical prodigy. "The Taste of Her Name" is still the most beautiful song in the world to Wilhelmina. It still brings a tear to her eye.