1924. John Olson left his home in Kootenai, Idaho for a sales trip to Spokane, expecting to return in two days. Instead he disappeared; his personal effects found strewn along the south bank of the Spokane River.
Meanwhile a hobo dressed in a business suit is rousted from a freight train. He has no idea where he is and, incredibly, has no idea who he is. He assumes an alias and works odd jobs while he searches for himself. Lonely, and with no one to turn to, he writes about his trials and his turmoil in a diary.
Back in Kootenai, Helen Olson raises the family, agonizing about what happened to John. Scandalous rumors and a deathly ill child add to her travails.
Based on newspaper articles, family lore, and the diary of an amnesiac, 85 Days is a captivating tale of doubt, despair, self-discovery and triumph.
1924. John Olson left his home in Kootenai, Idaho for a sales trip to Spokane, expecting to return in two days. Instead he disappeared; his personal effects found strewn along the south bank of the Spokane River.
Meanwhile a hobo dressed in a business suit is rousted from a freight train. He has no idea where he is and, incredibly, has no idea who he is. He assumes an alias and works odd jobs while he searches for himself. Lonely, and with no one to turn to, he writes about his trials and his turmoil in a diary.
Back in Kootenai, Helen Olson raises the family, agonizing about what happened to John. Scandalous rumors and a deathly ill child add to her travails.
Based on newspaper articles, family lore, and the diary of an amnesiac, 85 Days is a captivating tale of doubt, despair, self-discovery and triumph.
A sharp kick in his side brought him to consciousness.
He groaned and wrapped his arms around his
searing ribs.
âGet your miserable carcass out of here!â A gruff voice
above him spoke. âIf you can wear clothes like that, you can
pay your fare.â
Reeling with pain, he stumbled to his feet. He reached
out to a wall to steady himself as the world spun around him.
A fierce headache pounded in his temple as he looked up.
Cold night air blew through an empty boxcar.
A railroad lantern illuminated a stern face.
Tall and muscular, his assailant stood facing him, holding
the kerosene lamp. He wore a dark-blue uniform and a cap
with a nickel-plated badge reading G.N. RY BRAKEMAN.
Still cradling his side, the battered man leapt out of the
stationary car and into darkness. Stunned, he stood on a rocky
railroad bed, his knees ready to buckle. The world seemed
strange, like he had been thrust into a moving picture show
without being allowed to see the script beforehand.
âHey, stranger,â the brakeman called out. âYou forgot
something.â He threw a small black satchel out on the
ground. Then, he raised the lantern above his head and down
again, signaling the engineer to proceed. Hopping out of the
boxcar, he latched the door and stalked past, casting a wary
eye. The train lurched forward, and the brakeman jumped
onto the caboose as it crept ahead. As it passed, the brakeman
gave one last intimidating look and shouted at him again.
âGet to hell out of here!â
Still in a fog, the stranger watched the train roll past. He
stared at it for a few moments as it chugged into the distance.
To his left, a lone farmhouse light interrupted the darkness.
In the other direction, the train advanced through a small
town.
He had no idea where he was or how he had gotten there.
Bewildered, he tried to recall his recent activity. But
nothing came to him.
Alarmed, he realized he didnât even know who he was.
The brakeman had called him âstranger.â Strange indeed.
What could be stranger than being a stranger to your own self?
He picked up the satchel and tried to assess his situation
as he trudged toward the town. The air had a chill, but his
shiver came from deep inside. Pinching himself, he hoped it
would wake him from this nightmare.
There has to be a simple explanation for this.
What had the brakeman shouted? âGet to hell out of here.â
Could it be?
He had heard hell was a place of darkness and separation.
Was he being tortured or punished for something?
He stopped and glanced skyward, hoping to at least get his
bearings, but there were no stars or moon. Only blackness.
Seeing no alternative, he crossed his arms to alleviate the
shaking as he pressed on toward the hamlet, slogging forward
with legs like lead weights.
After about a quarter of a mile, the small community began
to take shape. Grain elevators dominated the townscape,
with several smaller nondescript buildings huddled together
and a few dozen trees in an otherwise treeless environment.
A structure that might be a fire station became evident, a few
shops and some homes materializedâthen a simple train
depot, painted white. As he got closer, he could read the sign
on the side of the terminal. EDWALL.
So thatâs what theyâre calling the Abyss now.
A flatbed truck squatted under a lonely streetlamp beside
the train station. For the first time, he looked down to see his
clothingâa dark-blue suit and green vest with black oxfords.
The rumpled and dusty suit looked new, except there was a
bad scratch on one of the vest buttons. Sitting on the bed
of the truck, he opened the satchel, hoping to find a hint as
to his identity. Inside he found a white shirt, two attachable
collars, a pair of black socks, and a shaving kit. He examined
them carefully, hoping to find a monogram or some other
clue.
In his vest pocket, he found $7.20. He discovered a folding
knife and a box of matches in the coat. His pants held a comb,
and the shirt pocket contained two pencils and a fountain
pen. No wallet. Disappointed, he then examined a pocket
watch he dug out of his vest. Cheap, with no engraving. If it
could be trusted, the hands pointed to almost ten oâclock.
******
Inside the depot, the stationmaster observed the stranger
slog into town and proceed to sit on the bed of his Packard
one-and-a-half-ton truck. He eyed the outsider curiously,
finding it odd anyone would arrive in this remote town on
foot, especially at this hour.
âWhoozat?â
The stationmaster spun.
The swing shift switchman peered over his shoulder at the
same stranger.
âI donât know.â The stationmaster spoke with a slow
drawl.
They watched as the man explored the items in the satchel
and on his person in an odd way. He kept appraising each
item as if seeing them for the first time.
The switchman took off his hat and scratched his head.
âWhatâs he doinâ?â
âThatâs a good question.â The stationmaster squinted.
âWhereâd he come from?â
At this, the stationmaster turned around and gave the
switchman a glare. âWhat am I, the Great Zucchini? How am
I supposed to know?â Mockingly, he repeated,ââWhoozat?
Whatâs he doinâ? Whereâd he come from?â I donât know any
more than you do! He just came walking down these tracks
like nobodyâs business and sat on my truck.â
âHe walked?â asked the switchman in a high pitch. âTo
Edwall?â
The two stared out the window again. The switchman
dared to ask another question. âWhy does he keep lookinâ at
his things so funny?â
âThatâs what bothers me.â The trainmaster turned to the
switchman with a knowing expression. âMaybe they arenât
his things.â
The switchmanâs eyes became large, and his mouth formed
into the shape of an âOâ as he came to the realization that
Edwall may be in the throes of a crime spree.
Turning again to the window, the stationmaster added,
âAnd look at those nice clothes heâs wearing. The suitâs all
dirty and wrinkled up. Doesnât really quite fit him. And his
hair is all mussed up. No hat. He looks like heâs been in a
fight or something.â He shook his head. âSomethingâs not
right.â
With raised eyebrows, the switchman asked, âWhat are
we gonna do?â
âIâll take care of it.â The stationmaster spoke with an air
of authority. He stood, hitched up his pants, and headed to
the door. Before he left, he turned to the switchman. âBut
keep an eye on things. Back me up if thereâs trouble.â
Short on stature but considerable in girth, the
stationmaster stepped onto the depot platform and made
his ungainly descent down the short stairway. He decided
to start with a friendly disposition, in case he had misjudged
the stranger.
âPleasant evening,â he began.
The strange man glanced around, apparently trying to
find a sign of pleasantness.
âWhere ya headed?â the stationmaster asked.
The stranger seemed almost startled by the question but
answered with a bewildered, âI âI donât know.â
It seemed an odd answer, but he decided to keep it light
for now. âWell, whereâd ya come from?â
After a pause, he repeated his reply. âI donât know.â
Pursing his lips, the stationmaster shook his head. He
wouldnât take chances.
He took another step toward him, abandoning the
friendly approach. Snatching the satchel from his grasp, he
examined the contents, ignoring the westbound passenger
train arrivingâcars banging and brakes hissing. Then,
deciding the contents were not of much value, he thrust the
bag into the strangerâs chest. He didnât know what this guy
was up to, but he was in no mood to deal with him.
Pointing his thumb over his right shoulder, he said, âSee
that train?â
As if it was possible to not notice a locomotive stopping
twenty feet away, the stranger nodded.
âI want you to get on that train and get out of this town
and donât come back.â
******
The stranger clutched his bag and stared after the
stationmaster, who turned on his heels and lumbered back up
the platform steps. Before entering the depot, he whispered
something to the conductor of the westbound passenger
train, who stood on the platform.
Hopping to the ground, the stranger proceeded to the
platform. He appeared to be the only passenger boarding.
The conductor stood like a guard near the entrance to the
Pullman car, not giving him notice. After a few minutes had
passed, the unsmiling conductor glanced down at his pocket
watch and shouted âBoard!â as if he were addressing a great
crowd of would-be passengers instead of a lone, rather dusty
man.
Entering the coach, the stranger observed his surroundings.
There were only five passengers in this car. A young couple
was ensconced in the back, their attention focused on each
other. Near the front sat a woman with two childrenâa boy
approximately six years old at the window seat and an infant
in her arms, asleep. The lines on her face suggested the scowl
she wore was a permanent fixture. She and the boy stared
at him, unblinking, making him feel like he did not quite
belong thereâwhich seemed likely.
He chose a seat two rows behind the sour woman, hoping
it would prevent further gawking. It did not. The pudgy
boy turned around, putting his knees on the bench, and
peered over the back of the seat. After a moment, the woman
elbowed the boy, who turned and sat in his seat.
The train jerked forward, reminding him of how badly his
head throbbed. The motion had the added effect of waking
the baby, who started crying loudly.
Closing his eyes, the stranger hoped when he opened
them that the world would be alright again. But when he
opened his eyes, he found the conductor hovering over him.
âWhere to, mistah?â The conductorâs Boston accent was
clear.
Having been asked this question moments ago, he
knew better than to reply the same way as he had with the
stationmaster. However, not knowing the names of any stops
in Hell, he couldnât be sure at first what to say.
The conductor cocked his head and tapped his thigh
rhythmically with his ticket book.
The stranger blurted out, âNext stop,â and handed him a
dollar, hoping American currency worked here.
The conductor returned forty cents and produced a
ticket. Before handing the ticket over, he studied the stranger
and punched holes in strategic places. Then, the conductor
turned and went through a door to a forward car. The stranger
examined the ticket and saw his physical features described
by the holes punched.
Gender: Male
Build: Stout
Age: Middle
Eyes: Dark
Hair: Dark
Beard/Mustache: None
To his relief, the movement of the train caused the
baby to go back to sleep for now, and he turned to look
out the window. But because of the lights in the train and
the darkness outside, he could see only his own ghost-like
reflection. The visage seemed unfamiliar. Who is that person
staring back at me?
The likeness revealed his disheveled condition. Using the
reflection as a makeshift mirror, he ran his fingers through
his hair. Is that dirt on my face? He licked his fingers and tried
to clean his cheek. Tightening his tie, he slapped some dust
off his trousers and turned his attention back to the window.
The stranger stared back.
In about a half hour, they rolled into the next town. He
found it to be as unfamiliar as Edwall. âHARRINGTON,â
read the depot sign. Like Edwall, grain elevators dominated
the skyline of Harrington, but it seemed to be a bit larger.
The station sat on higher ground, overlooking the town.
Hand in hand, the young lovers got off the train. Following
them, he wondered how they were able to keep their footing
while staring into each otherâs eyes. They exited the platform
to the left, then descended the short steep hill toward what
appeared to be the main avenue in town. They crossed the
intersection at the bottom of the hill and entered a hotel.
Pressing his aching side with his hand, he followed the
route the couple had taken moments before until he came to
the entrance of the hotel.
An electric neon sign read âThe Hotel Harrington.â Large
wooden double doors with brass handles formed the entrance
to a two-story brick building with a veranda on the second
floor. Elegant masonry decorated the top, and lively piano
music emanated from inside.
It looked expensive, but he didnât see another hotel in
sight. He hoped he could sleep off this condition and get
back to a normal life in the morning. That is, if morning ever
came to this place.
He entered the hotel lobby.
A rather active crowd prevailed at this late hour. The couple
he had seen on the train was now engaged in conversation
with others in the lobby, all sitting in cozy overstuffed
chairs situated on a Persian rug. A fireplace adorned with
painted tiles popped and crackled in a corner. Ragtime music
cheerfully emanated from an upright piano played by a man
in a pinstripe suit.
âWelcome to Harrington.â The voice came from behind
him. Turning around, he discovered a desk clerk eyeing him
with a stiff smile.
âI need a room,â the stranger said.
âWell, you came to the right place.â The clerk stood erect
with his hands folded in front of him.
âHow much?â
He cringed when the desk clerk informed him that the
cheapest rooms were a dollar a night. The clerk then passed
him the guest registry to sign and retrieved a key from under
the counter.
Stumped, he wondered what name he would register
under.
âIs there a problem?â the agent asked, bemused.
âNo, no. I have it.â A name popped into his head. He
had no idea where it came from, but he signed the registry:
âLarkin, J. A.â For a hometown, he added, âHelena, Mont.â
He noticed some of the other guests in the registry were
from Montana, and he remembered the name of its capital.
Convinced his real name would be quite different, he also
doubted that Helena was his hometown. But he had to write
something.
When he finished signing, the clerk handed him his key.
âYour room is number eight, Mister Larkin. Go to the top
of the stairs and turn left down the hall. Youâll see the room
on the right.â
Larkin retired to his room, hoping the sun would rise in
the morning.
Randy Haglund has taken a family tale and used the bones of it to frame a novel about a man who finds himself with no idea of his past and as a result, has to make his way through a stranger's life - his own.
The book begins at the time when John Olson is challenged by someone at a station and realises that he doesn't know who he is. We then explore the life of which he has no awareness and see the day-to-day anguish of his wife, Helen and their children as well as his parents, all of whom are wondering where he is and how they are going to survive without him.
It must be a terrible thing to lose your memory as along with it goes your identity and without context, it is incredibly difficult to understand your place within the world you inhabit. Haglund goes some way to show the stress that this places on Olson as he tries to find work so that he has some shelter and food at least, if not comfort. But even this is difficult if you have no idea of skills you have learned or capabilities you may have. One of the things that I liked is the way that Olson copes; he is sure that there are people that he has left behind but he realises that he has to keep going, living in a sort of stasis until his mind decides to recover. But there is always the chance that it won't and this too is something that Olson tries to come to terms with.
Haglund is a competent writer and the book flows from start to finish as we follow Olson's life under aliases he has to choose and jobs that he has to obtain in different places. The depiction of the family and their vulnerability now that the breadwinner has disappeared shows a resilience in the face of what could become destitution but just like Olson, there is a keenness to endure, despite the odds. I especially liked Helen's gutsiness as well as Charles, her eldest boy's, maturity in the face of adversity.
This is not a deeply thoughtful book but I think Haglund was right to embroider the facts as this novel has in its pages an enjoyable and reasonably suspenseful mystery which deserves to be shared.