![]() If you took a child actor, some best friend on the Disney Channel, and stretched him out into a college freshman - over six feet tall, rail-thin, and sporting a haircut the internet lovingly deems “the white boy swoosh”- you would end up with a guy who looked like Tor. I’ve spent a grand total of 41 minutes on a FaceTime call staring at Tor, and I can report with confidence that for an enigma, he looks normal. Paul on the right and Tor in the middle, talking to everyone, his feet callused and filthy and bare. He is a central part of life at Macalester, as fixed and as focal as the Twin Cities: Minneapolis on the left, St. just ran into him in the science building, Lila texts me, □ barefoot king. Spotting Tor, even if he’s just sitting in Café Mac eating ketchup straight out of the packet, is a celebrity encounter. They ask him to sign pieces of paper with his feet They steal a pair of rainbow Puma slides from his dorm They start and spread rumors that he got kicked out of the Whole Foods on Selby Avenue - no shoes, no service. He features in their TikToks and stars in their drunk group chat messages. ![]() Most of the freshmen - Tor’s classmates, hookups, enemies and friends, tablemates at his future alumni events - are somewhat devoted to him. ![]() Tor Olsson is a first year at Macalester College who doesn’t wear shoes - hence, “Barefoot Kid.” Two months into the semester, he is already a campus idol. She spends the better part of an hour discussing people I’ve never met and parties I didn’t attend while I hide in my dorm room from the nine strangers I apparently live with now, until she stops, mid-anecdote: “Wait,” she says, “have I told you about Tor yet?” The Legend of Barefoot Kid crosses state lines two weeks into the school year, when my friend Lila calls to tell me about the insane time she’s having at college in Minnesota. ![]()
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