One of my most undesirable characteristics (in the vernacular of some of my more sympathetic friends) is that I am a freak magnet. That's not to say that I attract the odd and unusual element of the populace in the guise of friends or co-workers. No, these relationships are of the anonymous variety and I, assure you, usually unsolicited.

I was reminded yet again of this particular power this morning as I slogged out to the Aryan backwoods of Connecticut on Metro North Railroad. Of the 12 train cars, I happened to sit in the one that also harbored a man of questionable mental well being and who carried on a rather humorous conversation with himself. What made it intriguing was that he sat upright on the edge of his seat with the noble bearing of an aristocrat. His legs were crossed in a continental fashion and when he spoke to his imaginary companion, he gestured gracefully, with open hands and eloquent gestures. He spoke, but silently, only mouthing the words, sometimes furrowing his eyebrows to express the severity of his point. When he had finished his discourse, he leaned back, hand thoughtfully on his chin as he heard his vacant companion's reply. I couldn't help but watch this exchange with fascination and once this bon vivant caught sight of me, he decided to include me in the dialogue. So he continued his silent expression, gesturing between me and his invisible friend, and once finished, stared at me with pleading eyes. And here, my friends, is my utter failing and the characteristic that dooms me to freakmagnetdomhood. I nodded at him to assure him that his argument was indeed persuasive. And so it went, to his glee (and to the ignorance of the other commuters) until we arrived at Stamford, CT when my companion was removed from the train by some burly NY police officers. He waved goodbye, which I thought was kinda sweet.

Perhaps it is my own failing that I find the slightly mad nature of the human animal to be fascinating. Perhaps this empathy gives off a scent that causes the demented segments of our society to track me. Perhaps there is the simple fact that I engage these poor devils that is my ultimate undoing. I guarantee you that if I am in a crowded subway, the unhinged fellow that staggers on at 96th Street, muttering under his breath, "I'm gonna kill the bitches" will zero in one me. And what will I do? Yeah, I'll offer him an Altoid.

I will talk to the man sitting next to me on a park bench who is upset because his son just stole all his marijuana. I will offer my seat on the subway to the unhinged old woman who then screams at me, "I may be old but I'm not crippled, motherfucker." I will give a dollar to the writhing madman squatting on the street who then slings a newspaper at my head. I will give my frozen Lean Cuisine lunch to the starving man on the street who, of course, has no access to a microwave but pleads for any food I have. And like "Night of the Living Dead", they follow me, arms akimbo, seeking more.

In our apartment building, there is an assisted living operation that cares for a group of mentally impaired men. This motley group of fellow residents are cared for by a trio of benevolent and gentle women who each day at 7 am sharp, guide them downstairs to the lobby to wait for their school bus. We go to work at the same time and each day we pass them lingering between building lobby and entry and each day, we go through the rituals of wishing each and every one a hello and good morning. One in particular, a severely impaired gent named Michael, daily gestures at me to come to him and with a studied intimacy, leans in to whisper in my ear. He seems rather fond of my hair. Well, that makes him aces in my book.

Really, what it comes down to is that these odd fellows that we cross the street to get away from are really the one dog in the litter that happen to get slapped with ringworm. Some may be mad, but others need compassion and it's intriguing to find that when you encourage the dialogue, you find that they really just need someone to talk to. That, and an Altoid.