I have a dear friend, who has been convinced for the decades I have known her, that she is “society’s doormat.” That people take advantage of her, whether it be her employer, kids, neighbors, friends. She’s working hard, probably way to wait in life, to put herself first, and ignore the feet walking over her.

I wonder what makes a person develop that trait? It’s really admirable, in some ways, it’s selflessness. Quite the opposite of most people in our culture today, where “me first, me only” seems to rule.

When does it happen in human development? I see no pattern. I can’t say it comes from one class or another, one size family or another, one type of upbringing or another.

But it does develop, and at some point, rears its ugly head, points a finger back at its inhabitant, and says “Stop it! You’re unhappy. You think other people are making you unhappy, but you are letting them. So you are doing it to yourself.”

Sometimes I find personality traits are only prevalent in one aspect of a person’s life. I knew a woman who was extremely compulsive, everything in her life, her appearance, her home, her car, her job, had to be “just so.” There was no variance from this. It was predicable how she would react in certain environments or situations. Except in the bedroom. She was a totally out-of-control crazy person in the sack. You would never guess it was the same person.

Perhaps we all need one aspect of our life that acts as a balance for the rest of it?

At some point in my life, I put the “kick me” sign on my back. I don’t remember the first time, but I can point to many, many instances in my life that it was obvious the sign was there, blazing neon for all to see.

Part of it (as he self-rationalizes) is that I was raised to think the best thing one could be was “a nice guy.” And/or “honest.”

And largely, it is, depending on what one wants to achieve. I cannot think of a single person, that I personally know, who has achieved great “success” or accumulated wealth, that anybody would describe as a “nice guy.” Nice guys finish last, it’s said. From my perspective, that seems to be true.

From time-to-time, I have said to myself, “OK, dammit, I’m gonna be an asshole!” But I must forget that quickly, or perhaps I don’t have the dick gene in me (tho some would argue that, I am sure).

What I do know is the “kick me” sign is still there, taped (stapled? nail gun? crazy glue?) on my back. It invites, implores, begs people to fuck me over, that it is perfectly ok to do so, because I am “a nice guy” and won’t object.

I’ll never have a tombstone. But if I did, and someone else was in charge of the inscription, surely it would say “go ahead, walk all over him, he won’t mind at all.”

But all of a sudden? I do.

I hate Taleo. And anything like it. Just saying. Would paper in an envelope even get read anymore?

I used to have a boss that we (affectionately) called a “pathological embellisher.”  He was prone to telling fantastic tales in which, there was undoubtedly some element of truth mixed with a lot of fantasy. (Sounds like my writing).

Recently, I have been pondering the issue of pathological lying versus compulsive lying.

A common definition of pathological lying is thus: “Pathological lying is falsification entirely disproportionate to any discernible end in view, may be extensive and very complicated, and may manifest over a period of years or even a lifetime.”

Whereas compulsive lying can be categorized as: “A compulsive liar will resort to telling lies, regardless of the situation. For a compulsive liar, telling lies is routine. It becomes a habit – a way of life.”

What’s the difference? Pathological seems to be conducted with awarness, i.e. the people know they are telling lies, whereas with compulsive behavior, the liars are not aware. Lying has become a part of their personality, second nature. Being truth actually makes the compulsive liar uncomfortable.

It’s something to ponder in today’s business world, where integrity seems to have been put into the back storeroom permanently.

That’s the way I see it.

They’re mobile, they’re homeless, but they’re ambitious….. they are on the road for a
better life, any life.  Staying in motels when there is work and/or money, catching up with their laundry, some meals, some correspondence, family – sleeping in their cars between jobs, washing up in McDonald’s or truck stop bathrooms – truck stops are better, because they
have showers and laundry facilities.

Their occupations are varied – agricultural, mechanic, cook, stripper.  Some are single, some have their families with them, some, like the stripper staying in the room next to me at a cheap motel in Metairie, Louisiana, have only a pet or two for companionship, breaking the motel rules and creating a sanctuary of sorts – a peaceful respite from the road, from the pawing hands and indecent proposals she encounters night after night in her occupation.

She leaves for work at 10PM each night, and returns to the motel at 4AM or later, depending on whether or not she has taken on “extra work” after her shift ends
at the “Gentleman’s Club” in the quarter.  Her two cats sit in the window of the motel room anxiously awaiting her return.  She sleeps until after noon, makes her one trip out during the day, to get a little food, maybe something for the cats, look for an apartment in case it works out to stay here.  She’s not optimistic, this is her tenth stop in three months on the road.

Like most of the people I encounter, she doesn’t really know where she is heading, or even why she is on the road.  She left a place where she had no roots, friends, or family – just a place where she ended up before, at the end of another road, another time, another set of
circumstances.

Others may have a variety of reasons for playing Kerouac:  they lost their jobs, got divorced, had their hearts broken, or simply are looking for “something better,”  or “someone better.”

There is one trait the new Okies have in common.
When asked, you find out they really aren’t from “anywhere.”  Or anywhere that matters, or any place you
would recognize.  Like they say of newcomers to the Northeastern United States, they are simply “from away”, and the only way you can glean any knowledge of their past is by listening for a regional accent, or listening carefully to what they say – picking up hints of
their past or origin by things they say, minutiae memories they refer to in rambling conversations that start and end nowhere.  The conversations are metaphors for their lives, at this point, one supposes.

I was explaining these observations to a friend last night, and she surprised me with her own observation:  “Well, you’re the same way – that’s the life YOU are leading.”

And it occurred to me (it’s always harder to look inward, isn’t it?) that she was right.  For the past twelve years, I have gone as my spirit moved me – lived all over the world, had incredible adventures.  I have taken jobs out of geographical curiosity, or for money, or in order to leave somewhere else, and I have even taken them because I was in  love.

It’s been a wonderful adventure, but it hasn’t come without a severe price.

And experiencing this culture now, in the U.S., reminded me of observing it somewhere else, when I wrote a short bit about the buskers in Paris several years ago:

“It’s a gypsy-like existence, dominated by men, setting their own hours, making their own rules, answering to no one. They are clean, and obviously not homeless or not cared for. It’s just a choice they’ve made.”

I make my own rules, I answer to no one, I am not homeless, and I am loved.

It’s just a choice I have made.

Sitting in Choumin’s Rest Haven Lebanese Restaurant, munching on my hummus and spinach pie, I could just as well be in Beirut, the Crossroads of the Middle East.

But I’m not, I’m at another Crossroads…..geographically and metaphorically.

At the intersection of US Highways 49 and 61, so the story goes, Robert Johnson,  in the early 1930s, sold his soul to the devil, at this very intersection, in exchange for becoming one of the greatest blues guitar players the world has ever heard.

The song was written by Johnson, popularized by Eric Clapton during his days as the front man for Cream:

I went down to the crossroads, fell down on my knees.

I went down to the crossroads, fell down on my knees.

Asked the Lord above for mercy, "Save me if you please."

I went down to the crossroads, tried to flag a ride.

I went down to the crossroads, tried to flag a ride.

Nobody seemed to know me, everybody passed me by.

I'm going down to Rosedale, take my rider by my side.

I'm going down to Rosedale, take my rider by my side.

You can still barrelhouse, baby, on the riverside.

You can run, you can run, tell my friend-boy Willie Brown.

You can run, you can run, tell my friend-boy Willie Brown.

And I'm standing at the crossroads, believe I'm sinking down.

The intersection is outside of a small town in Mississippi Delta Country, Clarksburg, Mississippi, and the town, and surrounding area gave birth to and nurtured the music of such legends as WC Handy, Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker, Howlin’ Wolf, and Charlie Patton.

The town has earned the right to call itself, “the birthplace of the blues.”

What really happened that night at the Crossroads is unknown, as are much of the details of Johnson’s life.   He drifted from town to town, honky tonk to honky tonk, and those that knew him, and his ability, said he disappeared from Robinsville, Mississippi, where he had been hangin’ out and playing, and returned a short time later as ten times the musician he was when he left, according to friends.   Described as a musical genius, but unable to accept his own talent on the same basis as others did, Johnson didn’t turn to drugs or alcohol, but to women, to bury his sorrows, and in the end, turning to one too many women buried him.  He died from drinking a glass of poisoned whiskey, provided by a jealous husband of a woman Johnson paid a little too much attention to one night in at a bar in Three
Forks, Mississippi.

I’ve had a few great days in Clarksburg and the surrounding areas…..checked out the Delta Blues Museum, grooved to the music in Blues Alley and in country honky-tonks nearby.

The blues may have been born at this intersection, but as I leave it, I leave the blues behind.  As I continue towards my final destination, my heart is filled with joy.
How can something so sad, make someone so happy?