Synopsis:
What if you lived your days out of order?
It’s 1995, and twenty-year-old Alex Dean has it all: a spot at Cambridge University next year, the love of an amazing woman named Holly, and all the time in the world ahead of him.
But then he has a brutal encounter with a ghost from his past that leaves him beaten, battered, and almost drowning in the Thames River.
He wakes the next day to find he’s in a messy, derelict room he’s never seen before, wearing grimy clothes he doesn’t recognize. He has no idea how he got there. A glimpse in the mirror tells him he’s older — much older — and has been living a hard life. His features are ravaged by time and poor decisions. He snatches a newspaper and finds it’s 2010 — fifteen years since the beautiful night he was enjoying with Holly was disrupted by the fight.
After finally drifting off to sleep, Alex wakes the following morning to find it’s now 2019, another nine years later.
But the next day, it’s 1999.
Never knowing which day is coming, he begins to piece together what happens in his life after that fateful night by the river.
Why does his life look nothing like he thought it would? What about Cambridge? What about Holly?
Alex must navigate his way through the years to learn that small actions have untold impact . . . even in a life lived out of order.
That might be all he needs to save the people he loves and — equally importantly — himself.
Review:
The Day Tripper is author James Goodhand’s first published adult novel, but he has previously penned two young adult books, Last Lesson and Man Down. For about the past twenty years, he has earned a living as an auto mechanic, which he enjoys and finds satisfying. He is also a musician who did not formally study writing, an impressive fact considering how skillfully written and memorable The Day Tripper is. He says he often gets story ideas during walks in the woods near the home in England he shares with his wife and son.
“What if you woke up each morning on a different random day of your life?” That’s the premise of the story that opens in 1995. Alex Dean is twenty years old, has been admitted to Cambridge University, and has been dating twenty-one-year-old Holly, who is studying to become a doctor, for just five weeks. But he already knows she is the woman for him because “becoming the person I should be for her is more important than seeing her,” he notes in the first-person narrative Goodhand effectively employs to relate Alex’s story. Alex grew up a loner who hid in his room playing his guitar and earning excellent grades. Their perfect date is blissful until he encounters Blake Benfield for the first time in four years. Alex admits that “just hearing that name in [his] head” can paralyze him. Clearly, they have a troubled history (revealed later in the story). Suddenly, Benfield strikes him, but Alex is incapable of defending himself or fighting back, leaving him puzzled and frustrated. “Why do I pity him?” he asks himself. Benfield beats him so badly that he blacks out and plunges into the Thames River.
Next, he wakes up hungover in a dank room that is barely twice the size of the single bed on which he has been sleeping. Dirty clothes are scattered about, and the windowsill is littered with empty bottles and cigarette butts. Emerging into a dark hallway, he encounters Kenzie, a young woman he does not recognize, in the kitchen. But she obviously knows him and seems accustomed to Alex being confused on mornings that follow a night of blackout drinking. She responds to his inquiries with sad amusement, but Alex finds no humor in Kenzie’s revelation that it is November 2010. Fifteen years since Alex’s violent encounter with Benfield. He cannot figure out why he has no recollection of fifteen years of his life. Is it a joke? Or has he been in some sort of fugue state? The landlord is banging on his door, demanding payment of past rent, but his focus is immediately on Holly. Where is she?
Making his way back to the bar by the river, he runs into Jazz, a young man who, like Kenzie, is acquainted with him and fills in some of the details about the life Alex has been living. He also goes to Holly’s home and has a deeply disturbing verbal altercation with her father. Readers learn that something terrible happened a couple of years ago, for which her father blames Alex. In fact, he reminds Alex that he is violating an injunction prohibiting him from having any contact with Holly’s family.
When he next wakes up, he finds himself in 2019, and with each successive visit to another time period, Alex begins to piece together not only what has happened to him, but also the fates of the people who mean the most to him. His visits to his parents’ home are particularly poignant and revelatory, as Goodhand demonstrates how much Alex loves and admires his mother, the dynamics of his parents’ marriage, and Alex’s troubled relationship with his father. He is often baffled by the things he learns from other characters but recognizes that he cannot express his confusion or the circumstances in which he finds himself with them because they would surely think he is delusional. Perhaps he is. But he confirms that his life has continued uninterrupted, even though he does not remember anything that happened to him after Benfield knocked him into the river. He pieces together that he has barely eked out a living as a street performer, playing his guitar and singing, and he never attended Cambridge. Holly is no longer in his life. And he is an alcoholic.
The future is a consequence of the present.
Alex recalls a conversation with Holly on that fateful day before everything went wrong. They discussed cause and effect. “This life I’m experiencing is all effect. But what of the cause? What has led me to this?” Alex asks himself. He meets Dr. Paul Defrates, a mysterious scientist who calls himself an expert on Alex’s situation, studying the phenomenon in a quest to fully understand it. (Goodhand injects a plot twist involving Paul that is shocking and brilliant.) As they meet from time to time during different time periods, Paul tends to ask many thought-provoking questions, but provide few answers. He suggests approaches Alex might pursue in his effort to escape his predicament. He challenges Alex. “It takes a certain maturity, it takes strength, Alex, to own up to one’s mistakes. To surrender control,” he tells him. Because Alex is intent on finding a way out and restoring his life to a linear progression. With Paul’s help, he begins to find that if he does something different on an earlier date, circumstances are in fact different when he wakes up at a later time in his life.
Goodhand says his uncle, an alcoholic lost to addiction at the young age of thirty-nine, was “a lot of the inspiration behind Alex’s story.” His research revealed that his uncle suffered trauma in his early life and that made him wonder, “What does that do to somebody?” He concluded those experiences may have been catalysts for his uncle’s troubles and employed that concept in what he describes as “an investigation into why things have gone wrong for Alex, what those small decisions are, and what small decisions he can make at the right times that divert him from” alcoholism, instead of “just reaching for” a drink. In The Day Tripper, he wanted to explore very serious subject matter but “lighten it by looking at it through the lens of a high concept idea.” That is “why readers see Alex both at his worst and his best” as they develop an understanding of the trajectory of Alex’s life and, hopefully, refrain from judging him or others struggling with addiction.
We are all surrounded by own own past and future. Haunted by it, perhaps. . . . What if everybody experiences time randomly? It’s just that their memory and conscious thoughts provide a grid — map references for everything — creating the illusion of one chronological, continuous existence.
As the story proceeds, Goodhand explores Alex’s relationships both with Benfield and his father, who he knows he has bitterly disappointed. They have both bullied and belittled Alex through the years. Alex comes to appreciate that “by focusing hate back on them, he is being dragged into their game, expending negative energy, when what he needs to do is remove himself from their control.” His progression toward maturity and wisdom is gradual and not without hiccups as Alex realizes that he has been subjected to toxic masculinity and succumbed to its influence on his life choices.
The Day Tripper is an expertly crafted and refreshingly inventive tale. As Alex’s journey careens into the future and back to the past, Goodhand illustrates how his actions have impacted not only his life, but the lives of those with whom he interacts. It is an emotional journey both for Alex and readers as he realizes how profoundly he has hurt people he loves and grapples with his guilt, remorse, and regrets. And grows increasingly desperate to alter the future that has been revealed to him. Alex is likable, endearing, and empathetic because readers can relate to his distress about his mistakes and desire to un-do them. At one point, his “beautiful, perfect Holly” is gone from his life – they agreed “right person, wrong time” – and Alex declares that he is “broken by booze.”
But Goodhand gives Alex enviable opportunities to change both his past and the future, and the story becomes hopeful and affirming as Alex begins to implement changes that bring about better results. The dialogue flows naturally and believably, and Goodhand’s prose is deceptively profound and emotionally resonant. He viscerally conveys Alex’s inner turmoil, and Alex’s ruminations about Goodhand’s themes are richly thought-provoking and beautifully crafted.
“Ultimately,” Goodhand says, “it’s a love story.” Alex’s overriding and unwavering motivation to understand and extricate himself from his predicament is his intense desire to win Holly back. Alex does “infuriating things” and even when his goal is almost in his grasp, he manages to “miss it.” Watching him fumble his chances and learn from his failures is absorbing, entertaining, and frequently heartbreaking. And suspenseful. Will he figure out how to get his life on track and find happiness?
The Day Tripper, despite dark moments, is an optimistic meditation on one deceptively simple truth: “Change doesn’t happen by accident,” but is possible. Goodhand illustrates that the power of love can and does inspire and facilitate positive change through an intriguing story populated with memorable and fully developed characters. The Day Tripper establishes Goodhand as a creative and talented writer storyteller, leaving readers anxious to read more from him.
Excerpt from The Day Tripper
SEPTEMBER 6, 1995 | AGE 20
It’s three-deep at the bar, and I get my order in seconds before they ring for time. I double up: a JD and Coke each and two beers to take with us. The lights are up and the music’s gone quiet as I weave the tray through the punters. Standing in the doorway out to the terrace, I am disorientated. There must be fifty tables outside between here and the river and it’s still packed out, darker and smokier than ever. I search the crowd but can’t see Holly.
I negotiate my way down to the water’s edge. She’s maybe ten tables away, oblivious, a ciggie poised skyward in her fingers like she’s posing for Vettriano. I smirk, enjoy my good fortune again.
“Excuse me, good gentlemen,” I say to a group of four in my path, voice cocky with booze and lust. They shuffle over, not breaking from their conversation. The resulting gap between their circle and the edge of the path isn’t wide enough — a careless elbow would send the tray of drinks into the river, possibly me with them.
——————————
“If you don’t mind, guys?” I lay a palm on the forearm of the bloke with his back to me. Their circle opens out and he turns side-on, ushering me past. “Nice one,” I say, glancing at him as I pass.
I look back at the ground. There’s a delay in my brain processing who it is I’m walking past. There’s a moment in which it seems that we’ll just carry on, pretend like we don’t know each other.
The air thickens. Time slows. I stop, a step past him. Look again. Razor-sharp short back and sides, hooded eyes, lopsided mouth. Preppy. It’s a face I catch myself imagining sometimes, never for long. A waking nightmare. Not that my imagination does it justice. Not even close, I now realize.
His recognition of me unfolds in slow motion. Perhaps like me, alcohol has dulled his synapses, delayed the inevitable shift of mode.
Blake Benfield. There have been times in the past when just hearing that name in my head has stopped me dead, left me incapable.
How long since we last ran into each other? I was sixteen—best part of four years, then. Feels so recent. Our paths crossing has always been inevitable; we grew up barely a mile apart. He spat at me that last time, called me faggot cunt. The many times before that I’d just legged it, hidden from his fury and his hatred. But you get too old to do that.
This crowded place seems so quiet now. Like there’s cotton wool stuffed in my ears. The two bottles tip over on my trembling tray, foam splattering to the ground. One rolls over the edge and shatters on the concrete. People turn.
How long have we stood here, him glaring at me, me unable to hold his stare? Saying nothing. A few seconds? Feels longer.
There’s the smell of burned-out house in my nose. The sound of his whisper in my ears that I try to drown out.
Don’t think about it. Do not think about that day.
Why do I shake? I’m a fucking grown man. Why am I shaking?
He takes a half step closer to me.
I once told him I was sorry. It was years ago — when I was still a kid. I was sorry. Does he remember?
I spin around. Where’s Holly? She must be watching this.
There’s no more delay. There is, of course, nothing for me and this bloke to say to each other. We have ventured into each other’s space, and that brings with it a remembering. And, as we always have, we must deal with that in our own way.
His knuckles graze my chin. I stumble backward and the tray falls to the ground. His swing is off, though; there is no pain. Not even surprise. We definitely have an audience now.
My response is pure instinct: palms raised, lean away. Easy now.
I don’t want to fight this man. I want to go back thirty seconds, walk a different route, have this night back for myself.
Blake closes the gap, my weakness an invitation. His second punch crashes into my ear like a swinging girder. My brain slaps side to side in my skull. Vision sways. My head boils, a cool trickle from my eardrum.
Where is Holly? Panic grips. I can’t just stand here and take this.
My eyes flit to our audience. He swings again, this time with his left. But I see it coming, dodge. He stumbles.
I drive my weight, shoulder first, into his ribs. He goes over, sprawled among the spilled drinks and shattered glass.
On all fours, he stares up at me. I’m perfectly positioned. I could kick him square in the face. End this right now. Why don’t I do it? Why can’t I bring myself to do it? I’d rather turn my back and cry than kick his head in.
He glares up at me. Why do I pity him? Why am I so uncomfortable towering over him like this? It’s like the positions we’ve always held have been reversed. The power is mine.
I let him find his feet.
He’s up and level with me again. He glares like a bloodthirsty dog, wipes his nose on the sleeve of his polo shirt. If we were alone, maybe I’d run. But with people watching, with Holly watching, that’s no option.
My punch lands perfectly. His jaws scissor against each other. For a second his head floats, eyes rolling.
I realize my error too late. I should’ve followed up when I had the chance. One punch is only enough in the movies, everyone knows that. His hands are on the collar of my shirt, cloth tearing as he holds firm. His forehead slams into the bridge of my nose like a sledgehammer. My face is suddenly and totally numb. I drop to the ground. A ruby-red stain spreads fast through the jewels of broken glass around me.
He shouts above me. Every filthy word I’ve long come to expect. Something soft disperses against my head. Spit.
The neck of the Stella bottle I dropped lies on the ground. Inches away. Blood gurgles in my mouth as I take a deep breath. I launch like a sprinter. Leading with the dagger of green glass, I’m aiming straight at his face and closing fast.
Blake backs into a table, stumbles, hands slow to cover his face. His eyes widen, abject fear. But this is no time to be derailed.
I see it too late. No time to react. One of Blake’s friends windmilling a table ashtray. The side of my skull cracks like thunder.
The ground feels like a cushion, drawing me in and bouncing me back. My vision finds enough order in time to see the sole of boot accelerating toward me, like a cartoon piano from the sky.
There is no pain. Just a sense of floating in space.
Time passes. More blows land.
The surface of the Thames billows like a black satin sheet as it rises toward me. There’s no fear. Is that Holly I can hear calling my name? It’s so distant, so hard to tell.
The river gathers me in like it’s here to take care of me.
Cool water spears my lungs like sharpened icicles. I sink forever.
A low hum builds in my ears. Lights fades to nothing.
And I sleep.
NOVEMBER 30, 2010 | AGE 35
My head throbs. It doesn’t matter if I open or close my eyes, the pain worsens either way. My mouth is like dust. Joints and muscles lie seized.
Last night is a blank. I hate that. I look above me. Focusing is excruciating. The ceiling is browny cream, textured in spikes like a Christmas cake. An unshaded bulb swings in the draft, the filament shivering. It’s really cold in here.
Where the hell am I?
Comments are closed.