College and a 1.6 GPA
Part 1 of of a 3 Part Story 
Enoch Peter Gamoian

In 1982, I was an engineering technician at a little electronics company. We designed and repaired circuit boards for the dairy industry. I was responsible for the electronics used to milk cows: sanitize, rinse, milk, sanitize and rinse again, on to the next participant in the bovine parade. Timing had to be precise and customizable.

I never understood the customization part. Cows, udders, milk and customization? Did each breed of cow have a unique preference for happy endings?

Our boards were rapidly being replaced by software and disposable computers, and engineering techs with my expertise were becoming irrelevant at the same clip. Rangor Electronics struggled to adapt and eventually closed its doors in January 1982.

I loved that job.

In ancient times, job openings were advertised in the local newspaper. Cover letters had to be formal and typewritten, and résumés had to be photocopied at the library. Everything had to be carefully folded, placed in an envelope, stamped (a trip to the post office for stamps), and put in the mailbox.

The process was slow and labor-intensive, and I applied for everything remotely relevant, even if I had to rewrite history on my résumé.

Two months later, I was eating crap food and watching crap daytime TV. My brain was turning into pudding, and I started to wallow in self-pity.

A friend suggested college—a friend who didn’t know I’d managed to get a high school diploma with a 1.6 GPA.

There was a parodic senior awards breakfast before the end of the school year. I was given the Mr. Absentee award to much knowing laughter and applause. When it died down, a voice from the back of the room said, “He isn’t here.”

The diploma was either a gift or a handy way of getting rid of a hardcore iconoclast.

I occasionally attended a biology class where I made no secret of my indifference.

However, when the unit on illicit drugs was presented and marijuana was referred to as a narcotic, I suddenly became an engaged and indignant font of knowledge.

“Narcotics create a physical dependency,” I said. “Marijuana creates a psychological dependency. It doesn’t fit the category of a narcotic. Coffee and that pack of Marlboro Reds in your shirt pocket do. By definition, does that make you a junkie?”

His response fit the classification of outrage. I was summarily yelled at, insulted, and sent to the dean’s office.

I wasn’t the class clown; I was the class asshole.

My friend didn’t know this either.

Yet on the following cold and windy morning—dressed in my best slacks, whitest dress shirt, and lucky job interview tie—I walked onto the campus of CSU, Fresno.

Prerequisites be damned.