"His given name was Arnold. Arnold had a childhood fixation with Mr. T of the iconic TV show The A-Team. Arnold sported a 10-cent store plastic gold chain and pitied many a fool, but his mom drew the line at the mohawk. The translation didn’t go well when his mom struggled to explain Arnold’s Mr. T impersonation to his very traditional Chinese grandma. Granny Zhao thought Mr. T was Mr. Tea. In Chinese, “tea” is pronounced “chai,” and thus, the nickname that followed him for the rest of his life was coined. Chai.After his first divorce, Chai’s ex-wife refused to return to her maiden name. His beloved grandmother giggled like a little girl when he took her last name: Zhao. He enjoyed having such an ethnic name since he looked like a good ol’ white boy pig farmer from a southern state. If you met him on the street, you would call him Mr. Zhao. If you worked with him, you called him Officer Zhao. If you were me, Esto, or Liz, you would be granted permission to call him Chai. And God help you if you tried to use his given name, Arnold. As far as I knew, only his grandma called him Arnold. I let it slip out so infrequently that I was allowed to live when I did."

"The morning erupted with the sound of semis starting. Since the wind had settled down, it wouldn’t kick them onto their sides while in motion. I crawled from the Suburban into the cacophonous daybreak. The Vespas were coated in dirt. When I made my way into the travel trailer, I saw that Esto and Todd were still asleep in the bunks. I headed to the truck stop for their spacious restrooms and to get some coffee before it turned to crust at the bottom of the pot.The desert air was cool in the morning, and the promise of heat hung in the air. From the bench in front of the store, I watched the trickle of traffic beneath the gray-orange sky as the sun tried to rise.A moment of introspection was visited upon me. These moments that were so elusive in the tick-tock of our daily lives were somehow attainable on a rickety bench stained with decades of filth. I saw our place as a speck on the American landscape. We were among the many souls traveling the arteries of commerce, crossing our continent. At that moment, I was fully aware of being a proud fragment on this grand canvas. I didn’t feel small. I felt included. This is why we rode. I peered east."

"My tribe and I wandered the veins and arteries of this land. We rode bridges over many of Her waterways. We crawled through choking urban ugliness and did days of illegal speeds across Her deserts. We blew out the head gaskets of our old Harleys on mountain passes in the vicious summer heat, and we picked bugs out of our eyes after crossing wheat fields that sucked the sun from the sky and water from the earth. But the time came to set our sails westward. As much as I felt my soul was at home on the road, it was time to head back to the land where our houses and relationships were built."

Readers' Comments

"Hogs to Hornets was written for the wanderers—a love letter to America, misspent youth, and becoming who you never knew you could be. Written with his signature sarcastic gruffness, Turner’s novel is a poignant exploration of what it means to create community at any age; its engine-oil set dressing is just to get you hooked. A road tripper’s must-read."

"Do not publish this. It's embarrassing. So bad. Really. It sucks."

"Paul Turner’s distinctive voice and irreverent sense of humor takes you on a road trip you will never forget. Hogs to Hornets a perfect antidote for transactional friendships. You will laugh. You will cry. You will laugh until you cry. And then you’ll go out and buy a Vespa with your real friends."

About the Author

Paul Turner, a West Coast native and lifelong resident of the Pacific Northwest, built a career operating arthouse cinemas he built himself. As a “gear-head,” Paul’s personality is highlighted by an obsession with anything mechanical that makes noise. Such nonsense translates into extensive motorcycle touring across the Western U.S. His six-year stint in college may not have ended with a diploma, but he learned most of the alphabet and how to make shit up. Usually found with an old film camera in his luggage and a movie review taking shape on his laptop or on ink-scribbled napkins, Paul continues to write about life inside and outside the projection booth. Also, he is hilarious. Just ask him.

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Email: [email protected]