Nothing Special

 

Enigmatic isn't a quality I usually find appealing in fiction, but Nicole Flattery has wrapped it in a mesmerizing package:  the story of a young woman assigned to transcribe the speed-fueled raps of Factory denizens that Andy Warhol eventually released, reputedly unedited, as a, A Novel in 1968.

Nothing Special also happens to be one of the few books I've ever read which passes the Bechdel test with flying colors:  it knowingly examines the complexities of female friendship and chronicles the evolution of a fraught mother/daughter relationship over time.  Of course a man is at the center of the story but Warhol's exclusive focus on creation and indifference to individual suffering makes him seem more god-like than male.  Whether the author finds him repulsive or admirable remains open to interpretation.

Born two years after Warhol's death in 1987, Flattery convincingly re-creates the early days of the Factory, before it became a revolving door for mundane celebrities rather than Superstars.  Although Mae, a native New Yorker, and Shelley, a faux runaway from California,  are the "nothing special" teenage girls of the title, their typing skills provide a passport to the new, exciting world of the 60s, when America was finally letting loose.  

What brought you here?’ [Mae] asked.

‘I couldn’t use my abilities where I’m from.’

‘Typing?’

[Shelley] smiled. ‘And listening. There’s not a single thing to listen to where I grew up. The life I would have had if I stayed there, it really filled me with terror. It made me feel like a freak. That’s the only way I can put it. So here seemed like a good idea. Everyone is on my level here.’ 

It turns out not quite.  The glow of being at the very center of things diminishes the longer they stick around and the closer they get to the end of their assignment.  Mae and Shelley, who both aspire to be Edie Sedgwick on some level, lose their innocence, if not their front-row seats shortly before Valerie Solanas shoots Warhol in the abdomen, killing the Factory's openness vibe forever.

On the couch, there would still be one or two people left over from the night before, looking like they had been spat out of a giant mouth.

The times change, along with the young women, and forecast the kind of posing that Warhol recognized would become a fundamental characteristic of human nature in a media-saturated world.

It was in these boys’ looks and lifestyles that I really saw the effect of their influence on the city – the leather, the smirks, the quiet aggression, the amused and cynical attitudes. All of it was second-hand. It was a way of being Ondine without being Ondine. You didn’t have to actually be a maniac, you could just wear the clothes.

As someone who routinely fantasized during adolescence about becoming a Factory flunkey, I got a truly vicarious thrill from reading Flattery's meditation on femininity and fame but put the novel down with a queasy feeling.  Be careful what you wish for, even in retrospect.  Being nothing special ain't such a bad thing.