Free Life with My Sister Madonna by Christopher Ciccone Page B

for.”
    I immediately flash back to that night in our basement. “You don’t really need to.”
    â€œI really do.”
    â€œPlease, don’t. It’s cool, we’re cool.”
    But Marty won’t be diverted from his mission. “I’m really sorry for what I said, but I didn’t like that you were gay, and I’m sorry for being such an asshole.”
    And that, as far as Marty is concerned, really is that.
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    B Y 1980, I make the radical decision that anthropology can wait. So can professional fencing. I decide to become a dancer instead. My father is not happy. He doesn’t give me a hard time, though, because I know despite his protestations, he wants me to be happy.
    So I move to downtown Detroit, work part-time in a sandwich bar, and take a job with Mari Windsor’s Harbinger dance company.
    Over the year I spend dancing with Harbinger, I get a deeper education in dance. I discover Alvin Ailey, Katherine Dunham, and new and inspiring styles of dance.
    Madonna, however, is not impressed.
    During one of our periodic phone calls she says, “If you really want to be a dancer, Christopher, you have to be in New York.”
    I know she’s right, but don’t know if I’m ready yet to take on the Big Apple.
    Sensing that I am tempted, my siren of a sister says, “Come to New York, and you can stay with me in my apartment. I’ll introduce you to people. I’ll take classes with you. I’ll get you into a company.”
    Within days, I pack everything I own into my big green duffel bag, and off I go to Emerald City, where I assume Glinda the Good Witch will be awaiting me with open arms.
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    A S PREARRANGED WITH Madonna, I fly to JFK and take a cab into the city. The driver drops me a few blocks from the address Madonna gave me, so I have to walk a bit. By now, it’s late at night and I arrive at Madonna’s apartment, in a prewar building on West Ninety-fourth and Riverside, my back aching from lugging the duffel bag. Nonetheless, overflowing with excitement and great expectations, I ring the bell.
    The door opens, whereupon I am confronted by Madonna Part Four (Part One, the cheerleader; Part Two, the serious dancer; Part Three, the punk drummer), whom I hardly recognize. She is dressed in an odd-looking outfit: black crop top, short red plaid skirt, black panty hose, ankle boots, black leather studded bracelets, and a black rag knotted into her matted hair.
    She takes a lipstick-stained cigarette out of her mouth.
    Before I can exclaim, “But, Madonna, you’ve never smoked before!” in one breath she announces, “Hi, Christopher, you can’t live here after all.”
    Straight and to the point, with no sugarcoating.
    â€œWhat do you mean I can’t live here? I just gave up my life in Detroit. My apartment, my job, everything.”
    Madonna shrugs. “Whatever…”
    Seeing my crestfallen face, she relents slightly. “You can sleep on the floor for a couple of nights, but that’s it.”
    I’m dumbstruck.
    She reaches into her jeans and pulls out a tablet. “Here, try this. It’ll make you feel better.”
    Feeling like a hick, I ask her what it is.
    â€œJust take it,” she says firmly.
    I take it from her and later discover that it’s ecstasy—or MDMA as it was called at that time.
    I also note that, unlike the joint, at least this time, she hasn’t charged me.
    She beckons me to follow her into the apartment. With wood floors and crown molding, it’s one of those prewar apartments with lots of bedrooms that are prevalent on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.
    We enter an open foyer that leads into a large living room filled with broken furniture. To the right of us, a kitchen and another living room; to the left of us, a thirty-foot hallway. I am amazed at the size of the place. Walking through the cavernous apartment, I am surprised that my sister has said