No particular point in the timeline...

Jordan leans back in his chair, tilting on its back legs as he watches his friend get his first tattoo. On Tino's inner right forearm is going a vintage-inspired 'Mom' and surrounding design. "Make it look like a merchant marine's," he'd said.

Biting on his toothpick and looking on, Jordan shakes his head. "She's not gonna like it."

With minimal movement Tino looks back at Jordan, "That's," he grins, "'cuz she's gonna love it."

"I don't think so."

Tino blinks for a second in pain before he comes back with his counterargument, "Recognize: Ms. Nancy Mourlot is a great admirer of my finely tuned sense of irony."

Jordan's not at all convinced. "10 to 1 she smacks you." Tino rolls his eyes, then bears down as the needle continues its work.

Home three hours later, Tino quietly opens the front door and slings his navy Dickies jacket over the hook behind the door. Crossing the entranceway and family room, he moves briskly past the kitchen where his mother stands leaning back against the tiled counter, reading an old paperback copy of Breakfast of Champions, a Bloody Mary beside her. "Hey, Baby." Tino has no intention of hiding the tattoo from her long — he hadn't signed up for perpetual long sleeves or an extended campaign of subterfuge, but it'd be his preference to make it up to his bedroom before being reamed for it. He quickens his pace. It hadn't been all BS he'd served J, he does believe she'll get over it quickly, but he's also not under any illusion she'll do a backflip when first she sees it. When her kid doesn't stop in or even answer she looks up from her page, it's not like him to avoid her upon coming home. Spotting her son trying to slip past her, something catches her eye. Nancy shifts her weight, lowers her book halfway, and calls to him, plainly and with no-nonsense. "Wait a minute," she instructs. Tino stops. Soberly, Nancy waves the tattered book at him, beckoning for him to approach.

Eyeing her, Tino figures the jig is up, she's clearly seen something. Coolly, he backsteps, enters the kitchen, then leans back against the counter across from her. He nods at his mother, "That my book?"

For a second she looks at it, then drops it on the counter beside her. Waiting, his brows raise at her; he's not outright laughing, but it's there, somewhere, behind his eyes. She's not impressed. Standing there barefoot, a good deal shorter than her tall leanly built son, Nancy's looking straight on at the huge square of gauze taped across her son's right arm. Rather than equivocate or demure, Tino locks eyes with her and offers her his forearm. She looks at him, eyes the large bandage, and begins the interrogation. "So, what's this? You, donate an obscene amount of blood?"

"Uh, huh," Tino winks at her, playing up her facetious remark, "giving for the better good. I'm a card-carrying lifesaver."

Having had enough of his glibness, she reaches out and takes up his arm. Nancy looks him in the eye, then gingerly pulls back the gauze. Tino winces just slightly as she does so. "Jesus Christ." Small traces of blood speckle the tattoo spanning maybe five inches of forearm by three inches across. There it is, 'MOM' written in a vintage banner crossing before a red heart and held in the beak of a red and yellow sparrow, flanked with a flower and greenery. The colors are bright, the lines are clean and sharp, it isn't subtle.

He looks at her blankly, "What?"

The crease lines between her brow deepen. "What told you this was a good idea?"

"My adolescent-addled head?" Tino takes a guess. Standing a couple inches above his mother he beams at her, "And my adoration for my dear ol' mum."

She stares him down, he isn't cute. "I am not okay with this."

"Well," he pretends to consider while replacing the bandage, "don't think it'll rub off…"

Her eyes roll; he isn't funny. Then it occurs to her he's not eighteen. "Wait a minute — where'd you get this done? I didn't give my permission for this."

"Well," he starts again, "kind of, you did." He wags his eyebrows at her, "'Member that magical ID card…?" Nancy shakes her head; she knew it'd been a bad idea to let him keep that, but Tino just grins at her, watching her piece it all together. And then because he just can't help himself, he plays on her frustration, "Wait, you mean, you handing it back t'me wasn't a tacit approval of all body mutilations and beautifications begotten from said ID?" He's looking straight at her, goading her as he reaches for her glass and lifts the ruddy-colored drink to his lips. Her eyes widen, watching him do this; she does not blink — he had better not. He does. Ever so slowly, to build the anticipation.

Tattoos, and drinking, and fake IDs, Nancy exhales in frustration, running her fingers through her thick sandy blonde hair. "What, am I going to do with you?"

Sportingly, Tino takes a stab at it, "Get me some antibacterial soap?"

She's not at all impressed with his sense of humor. Cocking her head to one side she demands the whole story from him, "You do this on your own?"

"Well," he answers breezily, aiming to further exasperate her if he's able, "it was me... and then there was the artist." She makes a face; she wouldn't qualify anyone who'd do this to her kid's arm as an artist. Absently he picks up the old book, familiar in the worn edges and in the give of the pages, looking it over in his hands. "Catalano was there," he lets drop.

"He struck by this insanity too?"

Tino sets the book aside and straightens himself for the semblance of making a formal report to his mother's interrogation, "He's still undecorated." She's not exactly relieved to find that between Tino and Jordan Catalano, it's her son making the rash, unadvised decisions. Sensing this, Tino works on her, affecting pity and flattery simultaneously, "'Cuz…" he bats his eyes, "his mother's not as keen as mine." With another goading sip he hands over her drink, avoiding an arm smack from her as he does. Tino chuckles as he averts her hand, adding offhandedly, "But I think 'Tino's Mom' tats are 'bout to blow up."

She's not amused, and she's not letting herself get distracted. Her head cocked again, she queries pointedly, "We on a slippery slope now? You got one, you got twenty?"

He's gleefully glib with her, "Gotta save up again first."

Nancy gives up. As what's done is done, she moves on and looks at him with purpose, "You better keep that thing clean — I'm not watching that arm of yours rot away and fall off."

A look of mock alarm flashes across his face. "No one said that could happen."

She rolls her eyes, there's no curbing this kid. Then she steps forward and touches tenderly her inner wrist to his forehead to feel for a fever. "You feel okay?"

And just like that, she's turned the corner on the matter, just like he'd known all along she would. He doesn't doubt she'll drag it up any time she needs ammunition to throw in his face, but she's resigned herself to the fact of it. With a vindicated look in his eye, Tino looks at her, holding her gaze. Pursing his lips he nods slowly, then grins winningly at her. "Love you, Mommy."

"You want a Tylenol? "

Again he grins; she can't help herself from mothering him, even when she's pissed and disappointed. There's a glint in his eye when he answers, "I'll take a tequila."

Pursing her lips dryly, Nancy Mourlot picks up the book again, "I'll get right on that."

*Posted 9/8/12