For those who aren’t familiar with the name, Buddy Wakefield is a slam poet signed to Sage Francis‘ label, Strange Famous Records. I first got introduced to his album, Run on Anything, a few years back in 2006 through a forum I used to frequent. I remember that I really loved this one track called “Convenience Stores” and I still vividly remember the powerful lyrics that embedded images in my head. I was recently cleaning out my hard drive and I came across the track so I’m here to share it with y’all. I know it might not be for everyone but definitely give it a listen.
Buddy Wakefield – Convenience Stores
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We both know the smell of a convenience store at 4am like the backs of a lot of hands.
She sells me trucker crack. Mini Thins. It’s like Vivarin but she doesn’t make me feel awkward about it.
She can tell it’s been a long drive, and it’s only gonna get longer.
Offers me a free cup of coffee, but I never touch the stuff.
Besides, I’m gonna need more speed than that.
We notice each others’ smiles immediately.
It’s our favorite thing for people to notice – our smiles.
It’s all either one of us has to offer.
You can see it in the way our cheeks stretch out like arms
wanting nothing more than to say “You, are…are welcome here.”
She shows brittle nicotine teeth with spaces between each one.
Her fingers are bony. There’s no rings on them. She’d love to get her nails done someday.
One time she had her hair fixed.
They took out the grease, made it real big on top, and feathered it.
She likes it like that.
She will never be fully informed on some things just like I will never understand
Who really buys moon pies, or those rolling, wrinkled, dried-up sausages, but then again, she’s been here a lot longer than me.
She’s seen everything from men who grow dread locks out of their top lips to children…who look like cigarettes.
I give her my money. I wait for my change. But I feel like there’s something more happening here y’all.
I feel like a warm mop bucket and dingy tiles that’ll never come clean.
I feel like these freezers cannot be re-stocked often enough.
I feel like trash cans of candy wrappers with soda pop dripping down the wrong side of the plastic.
I feel like everything just got computerized.
I feel like she was raised to say a lot of stupid things about our color.
And I feel like if I were to identify myself as gay,
This conversation…would STOP.
It’s what I do
I feel.
I get scared sometimes.
And I drive.
But in 1 minute and 48 seconds I’m gonna walk outta here with a full tank of gas, a bottle of Mini Thins, and a pint of milk while there’s a woman still trapped behind a formican counter somewhere in North Dakota who says she wants nothing more than to hear my whole story.
All 92,775 miles of it.
I can feel it though y’all.
She’s heard more opinions and trucker small talk than Santa Claus has made kids happy, so I only find the nerve to tell her the good parts; that she’s the kindest thing to happen since Burlington, VT and I wanna leave it at that.
Because men – who are not smart – have taken it farther; have cradled her up like a nutcracker and made her feel as warm as a high school education on the dusty back roads, or a beer in a coozy.
Y’all, I feel like she’s been waiting here a long time for the one who’ll come 2-steppin’ through that door on 18 wheels without makin her feel like it’s her job to sweep up the nutshells alone when she’s done been cracked again.
Who won’t tempt her to suck the wedding ring off his dick, but will show her – simply – Love.
She doesn’t need me or any other man, but she doesn’t know that either, and I’m just hoping like crazy she doesn’t think I’m the one.
Because the only time I’ll ever see North Dakota again is in a Van Morrison song late, late at night.
I Promise. Y’all, I feel like she’s 37 years old wearing 51 badly, dying inside like certain kinds of dances around fires to speak through you, a forest, if you weren’t so taken with sparks.
But she was never given those words. She has not been told she can definitely change the world.
She knows some folks do, but not in convenience stores and not with lottery tickets.
So, I finally ask her what I been feeling the entire time I’ve been standing there still getting scared like I do sometimes, really, really ready to drive, I ask…
“Is this it for you? Is this all you’ll ever do?”
Her smile – collapsed.
That tightly strapped-in pasty skin. It went loose.
Her heart – fell crooked.
She said, not knowing my real name, “I can tell, buddy, by the Mini Thins and the way you drive…
We’re both taken with novelty.
We’ve both believed in mean gods.
We both spend our money on things that break too easily like – people.
And I can tell that you think you’ve had it rough,
So especially you should know:
It’s what I do.
I dream.
I get high sometimes.
And I’m gonna roll outta here one day.
I just might not get to drive.
