I-70 WEST: MILE MARKER 82 334 Miles to Zanesville When I die I want to come back as a 1969 Plymouth Barracuda midnight blue with black-tape accents, twin dummy hood scoops, and a 440 big-block engine stuffed between the fenders. An engine so big they had to install it with a shoehorn and a hammer. I've got a six-pack of Mountain Dew, a book bag filled with Pop-Tarts, a jumbo pack of Sharpies, a change of socks, fifty dollars cash, a credit card in my wallet, and a loaded gun in the trunk. No rearview mirror. And no more worries. It's just over three hundred miles to Zanesville, Ohio. A straight shot. Gotta make good time. The sun's already up. By now they've probably found the old man's body. I-70 WEST: MILE MARKER 80 332 Miles to Zanesville My mother used to read me this book, HAROLD AND THE PURPLE CRAYON. Harold was a little kid who made anything happen just by drawing it. He could draw a horizon, or a window, or a door, or stairs, or stars or a boat or a spaceship. No trouble existed that Harold couldn't fix. A few years later Mom kept getting sicker, so Grandpa moved in with us for good. That's when I started writing on my bedroom walls. Harold had a purple crayon. I've got Sharpies -- medium-tip mostly, the occasional king size for big ideas. I figured I could make everything work out if I just wrote on my walls. If I just wrote the right phrase the right number of times or in the right color. Give my mother back her mind. Calm the demons in her head. Leave the darkness far behind. If need be, take me instead. My Wyandot shaman father was not around to give me spiritual guidance. So I created my own heaven, Zane-atopia, and I drew a picture of it on my ceiling. Zane-atopia existed at the top of Mount Guesswind, and my life was the climb. The earthly world was a dragon's tail wrapped around the mountain's base. The bad times were dark clouds. The good times a rainbow. A bright flash of light shone at the tip-top point of the mountain (where good people went to live with God) and inside the light was my mom and my brother, Zach, and Stanley (he's my dad), and even the old man. All of this I drew on the ceiling until my arms were like lead pipes and my neck was a train wreck. But it felt good in my stomach. Like Michelangelo must have felt painting the Sistine Chapel. Like reaching up to touch God's fingertip. Now my walls are whispering ten miles back. I'll never draw on them or write on them again. But I can't help looking at the Barracuda's dash: an empty space waiting to be filled. These Sharpies are dependable. The only thing I can count on. They'll write on just about anything. The thought of it makes my fingertips itch. I-70 WEST: MILE MARKER 79 331 Miles to Zanesville I never did belong in Baltimore. It hit me like the voice of God a few weeks ago, with summer break gasping to an end: You don't belong, Zane. You don't belong. I wrote it on my walls all day. Don't belong. Don't belong. Don't belong. Till I got fed up and Googled myself. And there it was, just a couple pages in: "Zanesville, Ohio -- population 25,586. Home of the world's only Y Bridge." A bridge where three roads intersect! A town named after me with a bridge that asks, Why, why, why? I drew the bridge. I drew myself in its center. And I gave it a caption. I inked it into my walls. Zane belongs in Zanesville. Zanesville is the place for Zane. Why had I not thought of it before? Zanesville is the town where Mom is buried. I may as well be Excerpted from Zane's Trace by Allan Wolf All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
