Butterfly in the Typewriter (8 page)

But Toole would discover that Tulane, the university four blocks from Fortier, was undergoing major changes as it transitioned from a primarily New Orleans institution with a focus on applied technical skills to one of the leading liberal arts universities in the United States. As the university grew, students came in greater numbers from farther away, increasing diversity and bringing with them ideas of progress. The coeds enjoyed a city that unabashedly offered indulgences found nowhere else in the South. They also came to study at a university that was growing in notoriety as it added graduate programs and earned federal research grants, attracting high-caliber professors. The world of Tulane was about to open up before Toole, not just as a means to a job, but also as a place to refine and explore his ideas.

B
efore Toole started classes at Tulane in the fall of 1954, at the age of sixteen, he spearheaded the search for a new home for the family. Perhaps the scholarship along with the odd jobs Toole would pick up throughout his undergraduate career helped them stabilize their finances. He found a small and affordable second-floor apartment at 390 Audubon Street, and he helped furnish it. So the Tooles returned to the heart of Uptown, living on the opposite side of Audubon Park from their old Webster Street house and only seven blocks away from Tulane. On a nice day he could walk through the park, strolling under majestic live oaks and pass the well-appointed estates overlooking the green grass. At St. Charles Avenue the periodic streetcar would groan and sway down the tracks, lazily making its way to the French Quarter, as he approached Gibson Hall, the castle-like gray, stone building marking the entrance to campus and declaring the enduring tradition of the university.

Having grown up in Uptown, Toole was in familiar territory at Tulane. He had passed it countless times on the streetcar, traveled through its campus on his way to Fortier in his senior year, and played in front of Gibson Hall as a child. But now he was a Tulanian, one of the many freshmen looking for a place in the academic and social circles of college life. At sixteen years old, he stood in the midst of this co-ed university, his pudgy physique contrasting the seniors and graduate students who were well into their twenties. Toole usually met social situations with humor and wit; his four years at Tulane were no exception.

Unsurprisingly, the engineering program, which focused on mathematics and science, did little to stir his spirits. Unable to closet away his need to write, he sought an outlet, a place for his literary expression. In his first semester, he walked into a meeting of the Newman Club—an organization for Catholic students—and volunteered to help with its monthly publication. He submitted his first story to the president of the club, John Mmahat. Mmahat shared it with the other editors and they all agreed they “had never come across anything like that before.” More than fifty years later, Mmahat is unable to recollect the subject of the story, but he vividly remembers his impression of Toole as a “gifted observer of the human condition.” Mmahat looked at Toole, who was four years younger than he, and judged him to have a “superior writing talent.”

Predictably, Toole quickly grew discontent with engineering. He could be an engineer no more than Thelma could be a secretary. Writing and reading were in his blood and bones. One day after school he came home upset and confided to his mother that he felt he was “losing his culture.” The presumed financial security a degree in engineering offered could not outweigh his need to express and cultivate the talents he cherished most. The English department offered him an alternate path. No longer a mere support discipline at Tulane, the English department, with its fairly new PhD program, was training scholars and sending them into tenure track positions in colleges all over the country. And as universities grew throughout the United States, the likelihood of young scholars securing a coveted professorship increased. Toole needed only a guide to nudge him toward that career. Fortunately, he walked into the classroom of Alvin Foote, an English instructor who encouraged him to pursue a life in literature.

In a 1984 interview, when asked about her son's experience at Tulane, Thelma exclaimed, “Oh that Alvin Foote!” She went on to explain that her son suggested she visit with the inspiring instructor during Open House Night at the college. When they met, Thelma asked Foote what he thought of her son. She reported that he gushed with pride and exclaimed, “Mrs. Toole, the other students can't even spell!”

Thelma often embellished people's reactions to her son's abilities, but Foote did identify Toole as a prodigy. On the back of one of Toole's essays on Chaucer, Foote comments, “This is an extremely interesting and perceptive paper. It could, perhaps, be worked into something for publication
in one of the scholarly journals.” Toole was still a teenager, and yet a specialist in the field of literary studies had recognized him as a budding scholar, one who could have a future in writing. Certainly this placed balm on any remaining wounds from his experience with
The Neon Bible
.

Foote encouraged Toole to pursue a life in literature. Over the span of several semesters, both teacher and student left an indelible impression on each other. Toole offered Foote hope amid his growing fatigue with undergraduates. And Foote, seeing great potential in his young protégé, upheld Toole's talents as that of a professional, not just a novice. It must have been a sad day when Toole found out Foote was leaving Tulane. In the fall semester of 1956, Foote moved to California for a higher salary. Toole sent him a Christmas card, and on February 26, 1957, Foote replied. The nature of their relationship is reflected in this single letter:

Foote makes light of his mood, but he conveys his sincere appreciation. Whatever Toole wrote helped him weather his unhappiness. In California Foote found himself longing to be back at Tulane, longing for students like Toole. He describes his current students in a manner that Toole must have found most entertaining:

Toole developed a similar style of banter as written by Foote—a blend of imitation and disdain. Years later, Toole would write similar lines about his own students in Puerto Rico. And the sarcasm pointed at engineers may echo their discussions about Toole's career path. God forbid Toole could have been the one turning that little wheel when the gauge turned red.

Foote goes on to reaffirm his dedication to teaching, despite its challenges. He also reiterates his vested interest in Toole's future, clearly regretting his decision to leave Tulane:

This letter, the only one from Foote in the Toole Papers, offers a suggestive glimpse into the relationship between teacher and student. Their bond, however brief it might have been, likely had a resounding influence on Toole. Foote was one of his few male mentors. He pointed to a track, rather than a paycheck, that suited Toole's talents. He encouraged Toole to turn away from engineering and pursue a degree in English.

By the end of his freshman year, and with his mother's blessing, Toole changed his major. Just as Ignatius in
Confederacy
drafted his invective against the modern age in his Big Chief Tablet and scribbled on the front, “MOTHER DO NOT READ,” Toole claimed a place in his studies where his parents would not tread: his father had an interest in mathematics and engineering, and while his mother tried to follow his studies in literature, she later mused, “In grade school, I was my son's tutor. In college, he became my tutor.” Her son would bring home his reading lists from classes, and she tried to keep up with them. It soon became clear he was blazing a trail of his own choosing. After all, if he already felt duty-bound to eventually care for his parents, he would at least do it working in a field that he enjoyed.

Having declared his own path in his education, perhaps feeling a bit more liberated, Toole planned to take a trip to New York City with his friend Stephen Andry. It was to be a short trip at the end of the summer, but one that was free from parents, teachers, tour buses, and itineraries. Even if only for a few days, Toole would see New York his way. He plodded through the New Orleans summer, looking forward to his trip north, and by September 5 he was in Manhattan, enjoying the fair and mild weather. Almost every night he took in a show:
Damn Yankees
,
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
,
Silk Stockings
, a taping of
Coke Time with Eddie Fisher
, and
The Vaughn Monroe Show
. He saved playbills, ticket stubs, and subway maps, placing them all as mementos in the back of his scrapbook from his 1954 high school trip, like an addendum, filling in the gaps from his previous visit. As planned, Andry and Toole left New York on September 9, along with another friend who had a car, taking a couple days to cover the thirteen-hundred-mile journey south. Despite the long trip, the car ride home in a convertible Chevrolet Bel Air was a thrill. As a devoted fan of automobiles, Toole captured the moment. In a snapshot taken somewhere between New Orleans and New York, Toole poses at the wheel of the sporty convertible with the top down and the sun shining bright. Carrying on down the road, the wind in their hair, Toole bid adieu to the summer, his last hurrah before classes resumed and he set to work on his bachelor's degree in English.

In the fall of 1955, the beginning of his sophomore year, he took the expected courses for an undergraduate: English, Spanish, history, and biology. He also took a philosophy course with E. Goodwin Ballard, a phenomenologist interested in aesthetics, among other topics. While Ballard covered the obligatory philosophers such as Plato and Aristotle, he also posed questions about American society and economy, providing a fertile ground for Toole's contemplation over the tension between his scholastic success and the lack of money that perplexed him for much of his life. Granted, his scholarships secured his way through school, but the pressure of money relentlessly hounded his family. Their income fluctuated, depending on how many cars his father sold and how many students his mother taught. He saw, year after year, the rotating wheel of Fortuna in the family finances. This experience seems to have colored his interpretations of philosophy and American society. He held an early interest in medieval philosophy, and he expressed growing
resentment toward modern America. It seemed to him that the learned pauper was a uniquely American invention. Certainly the medieval era, with its clear social structure, would not allow such an injustice. But in America, a fool could become a millionaire, while the genius lay destitute, all under the guise of economic freedom. He expressed this frustration in Ballard's philosophy course. In response to an exam question on freedom and equality, Toole writes,

Such notions would have shocked the patriotic core at Fortier. Nowhere in his surviving high school writings did Toole indict with such hostility, but at Tulane he was far freer to express his ideas. Clearly, he resented the more privileged students who were spared the woes of “a working boy.” With no regular paycheck from home, Toole endured the indignity of a variety of jobs, one of which was selling hot dogs at Tulane football games. While he didn't push a hot dog cart through the French Quarter, like Ignatius Reilly, Toole was a scholar, steeped in medievalism, selling wienies to his peers. Even Bobby Byrne, the person who would serve as the model for Ignatius Reilly, recognized Toole's feelings of disgrace. However, Toole's critique of the privileged was not only fueled by animosity; it seems he envied them.

A few months after writing the bitter words above, Toole decided to pledge Delta Tau Delta, a small but growing fraternity. In many ways, the fraternities and sororities were the entry points to social life at Tulane. Fraternity brothers would stand at the back of the auditorium during student assemblies and hand out cards, actively recruiting new pledges. Anyone could be swept up in rushing. Delta Tau Delta selected Toole as a potential member, and he decided to explore his options in
the Greek system. In the fall of 1955, Toole posed for a yearbook picture with his fellow pledges, sitting on the steps of the brick portico outside the cafeteria. Resting his right hand on his knee, he holds a cigarette between his fingers, while his left hand casually displays his class ring from Fortier. With a slight smile, he looks into the distance. In the caption, they misspelled his name, Ken Tolle. In another photo taken that same day, which did not make the yearbook, the pledges and the brothers pose together. While many of the other men lean toward each other, signaling their alliances, Toole awkwardly sits in the middle of the group, separate as if floating alone amid the ties of brotherhood. And for the privilege of pledging, he received his monthly bill, expenses totaling $18.20, comprised of a house fee and board fee—all this for a fraternity with a house one block away from his home on Audubon Street. He started the process of pledging, but he never officially joined the fraternity. Financially, it made little sense. Besides, as an observer with artistic inclinations, he needed to find his circle off center, somewhere on the margins, giving him the vantage point to watch and critique the society in which he lived.