The Product Line (Book 1): Product Read Online Free Page A

think about his hugs. He would give her the best hugs, the strong embrace of a loving father holding something so precious to him. Now, when she sees him, if she sees him, she gets the weak hug of a decaying old man, and she has to spend most of her effort trying to hold back her gag reflex.
    She loves her father regardless of his appearance, and smell, and failing health. She’s always known that he loves her too, no matter his descent into an ever darkening place—he loves her.
    ***
    Marie walks south down through the west edge of Hell’s Kitchen towards the Meatpacking District. This used to be the fringe of the city. The further south you headed the more the area would fill with prostitutes of indeterminate gender, drag queens, trannies. They were the nightmares painted in the minds of Midwestern fathers who viewed New York as the modern-day Sodom. A lot has changed since then, since it was the homosexual and deviant panacea—a lot of gentrification.
    Marie knows what to look for, she knows how to think like Ernie. She looks for areas with comfortable grass inlets to sleep on, sheltered overhangs or architectural nooks that would allow for an inconspicuous nap, always close to a source for drink. Local bars with discards out back for him to drink from, or older back doors that would allow for a quick in-and-out nab of some nearby inventory.
    Ernie has been caught a few times before while trying to pinch liquor. Most of the time he would be shooed away by the bartender or owner, if for no other reason than to avoid coming close to offensive smells, or God forbid actually trying to detain him. One time she found him huddled in a ball with two broken ribs after trying to steal liquor from a bar with a less than hospitable attitude toward thievery. A shoe to the rib was his punishment, but “at least he was able to hold on to the vermouth.”
    As Marie continues her trek she does not see the staple characters of the neighborhood. Ernie has “friends” all over the city. People he has shared a bottle or a smoke or who knows what else with. In her travels she doesn’t see any of them.
    She’s certain that she will find people out here, having exhausted her search at all the familiar outreach programs. Odd though, the areas once littered with the evidence of homelessness are clean. Marie has seen the news reports—mayoral staff and city councilmen all congratulating themselves on their innovative measures to reduce the blight of the homeless. All touting programs from tougher crackdowns to humanitarian outreach depending on which side of the party line they are playing to.
    No matter what the actual policies might be, it looks like someone sent a street sweeper through. Marie turns east on Fortieth and heads crosstown, toward Transitions, an outreach program that caters to the city’s homeless: volunteers and the formerly displaced working together to create a stable environment of care and love. Ernie wouldn’t be caught dead inside, mostly because of his own aversion to being inside anywhere for more than a day or two.
    What’s interesting about Transitions is that it’s one of the few places that doesn’t employ a system of “turnover.” Most shelters, due to space limitation, operate with a sort of revolving inventory where every other day sleeping space is purged. You clean up, get your things together and go outside to be readmitted at night. Typically you have to wait in line for hours to get your voucher for space that night.
    The facilities that practice turnover require a stricter schedule than Ernie can be expected to uphold. Ernie always keeps his own hours, even though booze runs his timecard.
    Regardless, maybe he’s found his way here, or maybe someone who knows him is here. Clearing out their bedroll or getting a meal to fill their bellies. Maybe they have seen him or can point me in the right direction, she thinks optimistically, holding on to hope as she walks into the building.
    Transitions is