Heartbreak over Emily had broken my spirit.  However, to my surprise, a sudden bright spot appeared.  Carol was a girl in Houston I had met at my Senior Prom.  I had visited her home several times over the past summer.  Shortly before Christmas, Carol wrote to say she had finally broken up with her long-time boyfriend.  She wondered if I ever thought about transferring back to Houston.  Hmm.

On my drive from Dick and Lynn's house back to Hopkins to start my second semester, I made three decisions.  The first was a no-brainer.  Eager to reunite with Carol, I decided to transfer to Rice University for my Sophomore year.  My second decision was to swear off women till I could figure out what I was doing wrong.  My third decision was to follow my uncle's advice and take a computer class.

My first semester grades had been pretty sloppy.  I had come to college far more interested in dating than actually learning anything.  Early in the second semester, an odd incident helped increase my motivation.  Tom, my dorm advisor, called me into his office one day.  Nothing serious, just a routine 'how ya doin'?' checkup.  He left the room to find something, so on a whim I grabbed the folder with my name on it.  I seethed as I read Tom's note about me.

"It is my observation that Rick Archer spent his first semester obsessed with women.  Considering the time he wasted, I was surprised to see his first semester performance of 2.76 was slightly better than his predicted Hopkins GPA of 2.50."

Strangely enough, that brief note was exactly the kick in the ass I needed.  Although Tom's note about my obsession with women was correct, given the extent of my failure I became deeply ashamed.  Tom's comment about my so-so GPA really got my dander up.  I was incensed at the thought that Hopkins had some computer model that predicted my expected GPA upon graduation would be 2.50.  That was a huge slap to my academic pride.  In the first semester, I had made only a half-hearted stab at studying.  Now, however, thanks to a broken heart courtesy of Emily, I was done with women.  What else was there to do besides study? 

Uncle Dick's computer suggestion led to the defining moment of my college career.  It was January 1969.  On the spot, I decided to show Tom, Johns Hopkins and myself what I was capable of.  When I went to enroll in a computer class in the second semester, to my surprise there were no computer courses listed.  Undeterred, I went to the Registrar's office and showed a nice lady named Mrs. Anderson the catalogue.  I asked where I could find the listings for computer classes.

Mrs. Anderson smiled, "Next year we are going to open up a new computer department for undergraduates, but right now we don't have anything."

Seeing how disappointed I looked, Mrs. Anderson had a suggestion.  "You know, we do have a couple of night school computer classes."

My ears perked up.  "I don't mind taking a night school class if it is here on campus."

Mrs. Anderson smiled. "Yes, it is here on campus.  I will tell you what.  Here is a Night School catalogue.  Pick the class you want and I will ask the Dean to grant permission."

I nodded.  The night school catalogue contained a course called 'Basic Computer Programming Skills', so I told Mrs. Anderson that was the course I wanted.  Mrs. Anderson knocked on the Dean's door and returned five minutes later wearing a big smile. 

"Dean Masterson said no problem.  When the new semester starts next week, your course will be on Wednesday evening at 7:00 pm, Room 201 in the Math building."

Mr. Murphy had predicted my problems with authority would spell doom at some point in college.  I was very worried Murphy was right, so I was always looking over my shoulder for his curse to take effect.  To my surprise, despite his dire prediction, so far I had not received my expected come-uppance.  So what saved me?  The late Sixties were a rough time to attend college.  Vietnam, counter-culture, hippies, drugs, long hair, civil rights protest, war protest, Richard Nixon.  Since protests in the streets frequently turned to violence, college students discovered occupying campus administration buildings was a safer way to make their demands.  Some college presidents took a firm stand against these 'sit-ins', but Hopkins went the opposite direction.  Indeed, the school pretty much let the students do whatever they wanted.  We did not have a lot of rules.  We did not even have to declare a major.  Take 120 credits in whatever interests you, do no harm, then please leave quietly.  Oddly enough, it worked.  My campus was one of the few Eastern schools that remained peaceful.  I never realized it at the time, but this laissez-faire attitude worked in my favor.  Over a period of four years, no one ever told me what to do.  Lacking anyone to argue with, my problems with authority were no longer an issue.  

However, when I signed up the night school class, I never expected the wide-spread apathy I was used to would be strongly contradicted.  It was pitch dark as I walked across the campus to my first computer class.  Hmm.  I guess this is why they call it Night School.  Taking my sweet time as usual, I was 10 minutes late.  I didn't care.  I was late to class all the time because no one cared what I did.  If I wanted to be late, no one said a word.  Most of my classes were lectures with 200 anonymous boys spread across a large auditorium.  The professor was so far away he didn't know what half of us looked like, so I got in the habit of strolling in whenever I felt like it.  I liked being on my own.  Nobody knew my name, nobody took attendance, nobody spoke to me, no one told me what to do.  No one cared if I was late to class and no one cared how long my hair was.  You want to wear your hair long?  Go ahead, kid, wear your hair long.  Nobody cared about nobody.  This was college, I was on my own.  I came and went as I pleased.

I gasped.  There was not one person in this room within five years of my age.  Most of them were ten years older, some even in their 40's.  I was a full generation behind these people.

The men wore ties and business suits, the women wore dresses complete with nylon hose and high heels.  Every man had a crew cut.  The women had short hair or tied their hair up.  Armed with the most serious faces I had ever seen, these men and women were the personification of drive, discipline and aspiration.  They used fountain pens as swords, briefcases as shields, and masks of frowning determination as war paint.  This moment served as my introduction to Corporate America.  Obsessed with climbing the career ladder, these people had a warrior mentality. 

Hearing the door open, the entire room turned around to see who the intruder was.  Now it was their turn to be shocked.  A collective gasp of horror filled the room.  Standing before them was the Creature from the Black Lagoon.  I had not remotely anticipated this kind of reception.  Good grief, what have I gotten myself into?  Realizing I did not belong here, I was intimidated. 

The room reacted like I was from a biker gang or a satanic cult.  The hostility was so intense I stopped dead in my tracks.  I had somehow stumbled into the growing rift between the business world of the late Sixties and the hippie counterculture.   First St. John's, then Little Mexico, then Hopkins apathy, now IBM-World.  It seemed like I bounced from one culture shock to another.  I was not at all prepared for this.  

Hi, everyone, I am a visitor from the Age of Aquarius!  Peace, Love, and Serenity!  Harmony and understanding, sympathy and trust abounding.  Hmm, maybe not.  Their angry expressions said it all... I was not welcome. 

I was even more discouraged when I got a dirty look from Dr. Grover.  My instructor was a man three times my age.  He wasted no time challenging me in a sharp voice.  "Young man, can I help you?"

I picked up on his hostile tone.  Evidently Dr. Grover hoped if he was rude enough, I might panic and leave.  After all, no one enjoys being in a place where they are not wanted.

Fortunately I was determined to stay.  I recalled the time I stood up to a St. John's mother who didn't want me at a dance party in her home because of my acne.  I felt the same way about this professor.  I was going to take Dr. Grover's class whether he liked it or not.  Very slowly, I walked the gauntlet up the aisle to his desk in front.  There were twenty-five on one side, twenty-five on the other.  Their faces were intolerant and hostile.   As I walked down the aisle, one guy whispered, "Get a haircut, freak!" 

I almost responded with a Peace sign, but quickly thought better of it.  Ordinarily I had a smart mouth when challenged, but I was also good at math.  Being outnumbered fifty to one had a chilling effect.  Recalling how the defiant hippie had been blown to smithereens at the end of Easy Rider, I was in no mood to look for trouble.  Several of the men looked ex-army or ex-marine.  One wrong move and I could be facing a serious confrontation.  Concerned about self-preservation, I made a conscious effort to act submissive and stare down at the floor as I approached Dr. Grover with my admission form. 

Frowning, the professor studied the form.  To his obvious disgust, everything was in order.  When Dr. Grover reluctantly gestured for me to take a seat, the room was stunned.  They could not believe their instructor had given me permission to stay.  What the hell was he doing letting an unwashed hippie into their class?  The ladies in particular had a horrified expression.  As I passed by on my way to the back, I could see they were terrified the creature might sit next to them.  When one lady quickly filled the empty seat next to her with her briefcase, I got the message.  They need not have worried.  I knew my place.  Saying nothing and looking straight ahead, I retreated to the far back of the room and took a seat.  Stationed close to the door, I wanted to keep my escape route nearby.  I was nervous, but the separation helped calm me down.  With ten rows of empty chairs between us, no one was remotely near.  

I had caused quite a stir.  Everyone was whispering, so Dr. Grover was forced to speak up in order to regain control of the class.  Worried that I was a threat, the men and women would periodically turn around to look.  They wanted to know where the creature was at all times.  Relative to these perfectly groomed business people, I stuck out like a sore thumb.  I was wearing a worn-out tee-shirt, sandals and cut-off jeans.  My hair was well past my shoulders.  I had not bothered to shave in days.  Uncomfortable with having their backs turned to a long-haired intruder, each person took turns casting withering stares in my direction.  Although I did not speak IBM, if forced to guess, they wanted me to leave.  These buttoned-down corporate warriors were disgusted by the slightest hint of the 'make love, not war' generation.  To them, I was surely some drug-crazed, syphilis-infected draft dodger who burned flags and marched in anti-war protests.  

I tried to make sense of the situation.  These people were in their late twenties, early thirties.  I had noticed the IBM logo on several briefcases so I gathered that these people either worked for IBM or wanted to work for IBM, the dominant computer company at the time.  Based on the way they were dressed, it appeared these people had come straight from work.  Since this was obviously a highly-motivated group, I imagine they viewed this computer class as an important stepping stone in career advancement.  

As for me, I inadvertently found myself placed on the fault line of generation gap and social change.   It was the crew cuts versus the long hair.  Fortunately, they eventually calmed down.  About halfway through class they decided I wasn't Charles Manson's long-lost cousin and stopped looking.  Sitting alone at the back, I definitely felt out of place, but I wasn't intimidated anymore.  They hate me, but so what?   After all, I was the king of defiance.  All those years of standing my ground with Mr. Murphy and the SJS Mother's Guild snobs served me well.  I had a right to be here, so I wasn't going to let them chase me off.  Their dirty looks meant nothing to me.

Once the crew cuts decided I wasn't an axe murderer, the constant peeks ceased.  In the following weeks they mostly they ignored me.  There was no interaction because I never gave them a chance.  I was last in, first out.  I never said a word and left the moment class was over.  No lingering for me.  Unfortunately, in the sixth week, I became visible again.  When Dr. Grover handed out a test, he expected me to come get it.  Back in the public eye, everyone resumed their withering stares for old time's sake. 

Dr. Grover explained this was a 'take-home exam', something I had never encountered before.  The project was like homework except that it counted as a test.  First we had to solve a mathematics riddle.  Then we were supposed to write a flowchart of computer commands designed to use a computer to solve the riddle. 

After leaving class, I stopped off at the library and took a look.  This was a classic math puzzle known as 'The Billiard Ball Riddle'.  There were 12 balls identical in size and appearance.  Eleven balls weighed the same, but one ball was an odd weight.  It could be lighter or heavier than the other 11 balls.  Using a balance scale, I had three chances to weigh the balls to determine which ball was the odd one and decide if it was heavier or lighter than the rest.  This was an excellent logic test.  Since I love to solve puzzles, I took to this intriguing assignment like a duck to water. 

Why wait for tomorrow?  Since my curiosity was involved, I got right to work.  The riddle proved to be tricky, but I liked the challenge.  I ripped up a piece of paper and turned it into 12 spit wads to serve as miniature balls.  After a couple hours of trying different methods, I finally figured it out.  The solution was so ingenious that I admired whoever had designed the puzzle.  The Riddle was hard, but the programming was easy.  I used computer language to write out the same logic steps I had used to identify the wrong-weight billiard ball.  When I finished around closing time, I smiled.  Although the project had taken close to three hours, I had been too fascinated to notice.  This wasn't work, this was fun. 

When we handed in our assignment the following week, there was an unusual amount of grumbling.  Dr. Grover was taken aback by the strong negativity.  The consensus was this assignment was far too difficult.  I didn't say anything, but I knew this project had required some serious thought plus at least two to three hours of time, maybe more.  I imagined these were busy people who worked long hours.  Some had families to take care of.  They probably didn't have the luxury of three hours of complete silence to concentrate like I did.  So in this sense I had a major advantage.  And did I feel sorry for them?  Nah.  I had just spent nine years competing against SJS kids who had far more advantages than me, so why feel guilty?  It was nice to have the advantage arrow pointing at me for a change.

I enjoyed watching the drama.  Our professor was getting some serious flak.  One person after another complained they lacked the spare time necessary to adequately tackle this problem.  Feeling defensive, Dr. Grover lashed back. 

"You people need to check your attitudes.  I know for a fact that one company uses this exact puzzle as a test for hiring new programmers.  Businesses regularly use brain teasers as a useful tool for evaluating a candidate's critical thinking ability.  The whole point of this class is to encourage you to embrace challenges rather than back down from them."

That shut them up, but no one was happy.  Things were worse the following week.  The moment I arrived, I could see Dr. Grover was in a very bad mood.  He wasted no time complaining about the mediocre class performance.  However, rather than encourage the group to do better on the next test, Dr. Grover tried to appease the angry crowd.  After admitting this challenge was tougher than he had expected, he apologized.  I was surprised at this tactic.  To me, Dr. Grover was showing weakness.  Why apologize?  This is college, make these crybabies step up their game.  Instead Dr. Grover acted like a worried lion tamer backing down to snarls.  Mr. Salls, my fierce German teacher, would have bullied us into submission, but not this guy.  Sure enough, sensing weakness, the grumbling dramatically increased. 

Just then, a woman asked, "Dr. Grover, did everyone do poorly this test?" 

When Dr. Grover hesitated, silence took over the room.  Then someone else demanded he answer the question.  Exasperated, Dr. Grover blurted out, "Only one person was able to solve the problem."

Aha!  More than likely, I was the one he referred to.  When the class grew quiet, Dr. Grover was pleased.  He smiled because his admission had silenced the class.  Unfortunately, now Grover pressed his luck.  If only one person could solve the exam, this proved the test was too tough.  In other words, why feel bad if the test was unfair?  This line of reasoning backfired badly because everyone in the room knew grades in college were based on the 'Curve'.  As things stood, one person was destined to get an 'A' while everyone else faced 'B' or worse.  Immediately the crowd began to look around.  They were searching for the rat who made them look bad.  Heads turned every which way to find a guilty face.  Unable to find someone to blame, one exasperated lady spoke up. 

"Dr. Grover, who was the person who solved the puzzle?"

To my dismay, Grover decided to name the perpetrator.  He asked 'Richard Archer' to raise his hand.  Oh shit!  I had not anticipated this.  What an idiot!   I had no intention of responding.  Already the most unpopular person in the room, why invite further wrath?

The reaction of the class was interesting.  A frenzy of curiosity ensued.  Once the instructor let the cat out of the bag, heads turned every which way to see who displayed tell-tale signs of discomfort at being singled out.  Oddly enough, not one person turned to look at me.  Why bother?  Obviously it couldn't be me.

The longer it lasted, the higher the stakes.  Disappointed the villain was not willing to step forward, the group looked back at Dr. Grover.  He didn't know who 'Richard Archer' was either.  Realizing no one was going to confess, his eyes went down to his roster.  He must have seen something because I saw a flash of recognition cross his face.  With a look of utter incredulity, he lifted his head to stare directly at me.  Uh oh, busted. 

Damn him!  Picking up on Grover's glance, every eye in the room turned to follow the trajectory of his glance.  As people turned their heads, a look of total shock crossed their faces.  Disbelief, disgust, denial.  Since I did not conform to their vision of a winner, the entire group had written me off.  It was classic 'Don't judge a book by its cover.' 

As the group stared with undisguised hostility, I crossed my arms and stared back grim-faced.  To these people, I was a worthless bum.  Except that appearances can be deceiving.  Yes, I looked like a drug-fried hippie freak, but it was all a disguise.  Underneath my shabby clothes and all that hair, I was a gifted student. 

This experience was an affirmation of the elite education I had received at St. John's.  These people had no idea I had spent nine long years as a scholastic gladiator enrolled at the toughest, most competitive school in Houston.   Mr. Salls had promised me Hopkins was a "perfect fit for my talents".  At the memory of his words, I smiled.  My Headmaster had been right all along.  Thank you, Mr. Salls. 

Underneath my ghastly appearance was a mind accustomed to tackling academic challenges with supreme confidence.  I did not get a free ride to Johns Hopkins by accident.  I earned my scholarship.  In fact, I daresay I was more driven to succeed than any person in this room.