I had an hour to kill before my Psychology class at 1:00, so I went to the Union Center and bought some French fries, heaped some ketchup and salt on them, and wandered around campus. It felt strange. Like being displaced in time. And the fact that all the students were still wearing the same clothes from the seventies and early eighties, and I mean literally the same clothes, made it even more surreal. When wouldI find a place for myself?

I was quickly losing hope that going back to school was the right answer as I sat in my usual seat in the back of class. I was early and watched every eighteen year old come and sit in their respective seats. Finally, Mr. Anderson walked in, dropped his bag on his own desk and wrote on the board, "Deviant Behavior."

Harold Anderson looked like Albert Einstein but with facial pockmarks from zits as a teenager which had censured his good nature. He was always happy to be in our classes, but today he seemed unusually excited. "Okay, deviant behavior. What do you think that is?"

Miscellaneous guesses from miscellaneous students, "bad, immoral, not the cool thing to do, the cool thing to do...."

"Did anybody read the chapter?" Slowly I raised my hand. "Okay Mr. Orlando, what is deviant behavior?"

I cleared my throat. "Differing from the norm or accepted moral or societal standards." My answer seemed to disappoint the class; if no one knew the answer than no one would look stupid. I was pissed for amoment, then I remembered being a peer pressure type of guy myself in my younger years, well--- more than that, I was a deviant myself.

"Very good." Mr. Anderson went on to discuss a text book case of deviant behavior then wanting to turn the discussion to the class he asked, "Who and what are some deviants today?"

"Madonna?"

"No, as strange as it seems she actually, while pushing the envelope, sets moral standards, at least for her generation."

"Andrew Cunanan. Now he was deviant."

"Why was he deviant?"

Some Shirley Temple typed screeched, "Well, he killed people for God's sake!"

"That's right. But why?"

"Nobody will ever know now that he's dead." Said Conroy, a clean-cut jocky looking kid.

"Well, let's guess." Mr. Anderson could see people rising in their chairs. This discussion was waking them up. It was waking me up too.

"He was gay." There was silence after Johanna reminded us of that.

Albert, an obvious gay man, chimed in, "Homosexuality is not deviant behavior."

"The hell it's not," Conroy said proudly.

Albert turned to Mr. Anderson, "Tell him, it's not deviant behavior."

"While it may seem terribly politically incorrect, according to this text book, it is."

Albert slammed his book closed and attempted a floundering throw in the trash, but missed the can by two feet. Albert calmly got up and threw the book in the can and reclaimed his seat. "If that's what the book claims, I don't want it. I'm here to learn, not be insulted."

"Hey, no one's trying to insult you man, it's just that being gay is deviant because it's not the norm." Conroy said in an attempt to be rationale.

Mr. Anderson then calmly asked, "And what is the norm?" He looked right at Conroy. "Are you normal?"

A girl from the back of the class piped in, "Hell no!"

Everyone laughed but Mr. Anderson calmed us down, "Let's get back to Cunanan. How did he become so brutal? No apparent violence in his childhood. Was it a bad gene? What? I want five hundred words on our first responses to these questions. Is a killer made or born? You don't have to be right, just honest. See you next week."

Somehow this class got my blood going. A direction. Something to do, something to discover. I read the chapter again before starting my paper. A paper, shit, who would have ever thought writing a paper forsome stupid community college class would give me purpose?