As a television addicted kid coming up in New York City during the 1970s, I regularly watched reruns of the long-running anthology series, Alfred Hitchcock Presents. Its mysteries of mayhem, murder, betrayal and brutality had plotlines where sometimes the bad guys (or gals) got away with their crimes. Before launching into the drama, the show opened with Hitch greeting the audience with a deep voiced, “Good evening,” followed by a few minutes of chatter. It was from the TV program that I followed his name to the feature films that would have so much influence on me years later when I began reading and writing crime fiction.

Back in the days before cable and streaming, movies were shown on almost every channel, and I watched them all: from the ABC 4:30 Movie every afternoon to WOR’s Million Dollar Movie to the nightly flicks broadcast on CBS after the eleven o’clock news.

The first Hitchcock film I saw on TV was The Birds, a picture that scared the hell out of me. Dwelling in a city where pigeons were plentiful, I walked around uneasy for weeks. Unlike most of the films I’d seen in my young life, the movie seemed strange. There was no explanation given for the birds’ behavior. The reasons for their angry arrival to that seaside town and continued attacks on its residents were unclear. There was no news report or scientist that explained what happened and, though the birds were perched at the end, I got a feeling they were simply chilling until they felt like causing more havoc.

Over the next couple of years, I saw several Hitchcock movies on television, including Strangers on a Train, North by Northwest, and Vertigo. But as a Harlem resident whose bedroom window faced another building, it was Rear Window, based on the 1942 story “It Had to Be Murder” by New York City scribe Cornell Woolrich, that most resonated in my 12-year-old mind.

Though I didn’t have a broken leg or a pair of binoculars, like Jimmy Stewart does in the movie, in the summer of 1975, I began spying on my neighbors across the way while kneeling on my younger brother’s bed.

There was the constantly arguing family with a drunken dad, miserable mom and confused children. The parents screamed at one another constantly, cussing like pirates as though that was the only way they knew how to communicate.

Downstairs from them resided a single mom with two beautiful daughters. Their window was directly across from mine. Most nights their shade was down, but from the glow of their ceiling light, I could see whenever someone entered the room. Then, one night the oldest girl pulled up the shade. She didn’t seem surprised to have caught me peeping. “Hello,” she said boldly. I almost fell off the bed I was so shocked.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“I’m Michael,” I stammered. Back then I had a stutter that popped up whenever I was nervous.

“What’s yours?”

“India,” she replied and smiled. For what felt like forever, I was struck dumb by her beauty. India had a smooth sandy brown complexion like the girls of the country she was named after. She was tall and shapely and had dark hair that flowed to her shoulders like a black river. She was obviously “Spanish,” the term used back them for anyone, be they Puerto Rican or Dominican or Colombian, who was of Latin descent. I never did find out her island of origin.

“When me and my sister were having dinner, I saw you looking out of the window. What were you hoping to see?” she asked.

I giggled. “Nothing, really. I was just looking.”

Suddenly, I heard my grandmother scream that dinner was ready. I jumped as though I’d been shocked by the third rail in a subway tunnel and quickly pulled down the shade.

India was a few years older than me and the finest young woman I’d ever seen in real life. At that point my biggest crushes were actress Dianne Carroll and tambourine playing Valerie, from the animated tv show, Josie and the Pussycats.

Our building was 628 West 151 Street between Broadway and Riverside and India’s apartment was directly across on 150th Street. I didn’t know many people on her street, and, when passing it, I hardly saw any kids playing outside. Our block was always roaring with rugrats, while India’s was always quiet.

At the dinner table that evening, I confessed to Perky, my younger brother, what I’d been doing while he was watching television. “I want to meet her too,” he said. I nodded my head in agreement. Later that night, I called out her name, but India never came to the window. After a half hour or so, I gave up. Perky and I went to our respective beds where we preceded to play Jackson 5, a game where we pretended to be members of the musical family. Of course, we argued about who would be Michael and played until one of us fell asleep. That night it was Perky, and I spent the rest of my awake time thinking about India.

The year before Frankie Vali had released the maudlin love song “My Eyes Adored You,” and that was the soundtrack that I attached to the window-to-window romance playing in my head. I was obsessed. However, much as I liked girls, I was a chubby, shy and often tongue tied 12-year-old and I thought I was ugly. Only many years later, when looking at pictures of myself from those years, did I realize that I’d been a pretty cute kid.

The following evening, I once again screeched India’s name. This time only a few minutes passed before she came to the window. “Hey,” she said casually. I smiled. “How you doing, Michael?” The fact that she remembered my name amazed me. A few minutes later Perky came into the room, and I introduced them. India then called over her sister. “This is Carmen.” The two girls were opposites in every way: Carmen was lighter, shorter, and shy, barely waving as she blushed through the introductions.

For the next week or so India and I called out to one another from our windows constantly, exchanging conversation about school, movies and our favorite musical artists. We often spoke in the evening as the sun was setting. Sometimes it felt like a dream. We talked about seeing Jaws, songs on the pop radio station, WABC, and summertime activities—for me, riding a bike on Riverside Drive and playing dodge ball in the courtyard and in India’s case, going to the beach and playing games with her sister.

Things changed one night. Perky and Carmen were present, and India was being playful and flirty. She might’ve been channeling Mae West, or perhaps she had taken a sip of her mother’s wine, but she shocked all three of us when she said, “You guys want to see something?” And then without warning, India pulled up her shirt and flashed the prettiest brown breasts I’d ever seen.

Truthfully, besides my mom, grandma and the women in the Playboy magazines I’d found in my stepfather’s closet, I’d never seen any naked breasts. India laughed as her sister shrieked, “What are you doing?” Perky’s mouth hung open in shock. Still laughing, India reached for her sister’s blouse and attempted to pull it up, but Carmen leapt back into the room. Seconds later, the curtain was drawn.

That night I found it hard to sleep. India had awakened something in me. In the summer night, as sweat trickled down my face, I tossed and turned until I slipped away into a slumberland where brown breasts were everywhere and brown skinned girls soared in the sky like exotic birds, performing miracles on Riverside Drive. Morning came much too fast.

Mom woke me, and it felt as though I crashed to earth. The day at our babysitter Mrs. Harrison’s house dragged slowly. That evening, I couldn’t wait to get to the window. Yet, though I called out India’s name for an hour, she never answered. So, I retreated to my comic book collection and turned on the radio just in time to hear the sorrowful splendor of 10cc’s “I’m Not in Love” floating out of the mono speaker. That song sounded like nothing else on the radio and to this day it’s still a favorite of mine.

Days later I was with grandma at the neighborhood Sloan’s Supermarket on 150th Street and Broadway when I saw India with her mother standing online at the cash register. Grandma and India’s mom exchanged pleasantries, neither knowing that their kids had history. India and I were blank faced though we did exchange glances. After her mother finished paying, India grabbed the two packed grocery bags from the conveyor belt, and I watched as they walked toward the exit. Seconds before strolling out of the door, India turned around and smiled.

When I got home, I went to my room and, minutes after clicking on the light, heard India call my name. Rushing over, I opened the window and screen and leaned far out the window as though trying to elongate myself enough to touch her. “It was nice seeing you today,” India said.
“Yes, yes…it was great,” I stammered.

Her smile was as pleasing to me as a blue banana boat from the ice cream man in August, sweet as a freezer full of popsicles, and as smoldering as my Jamaican uncle’s homemade hot sauce. I don’t know why, but that would be the last time I saw India either from the window or outside. My guess is that her younger sister told her mother about what had happened at the window and that India was forbidden to see or talk to me.

Two weeks later, I entered 6th grade at St. Catherine of Genoa. Between classes, Boy Scouts and other activities, my peeping days were over. India drifted from my life, but she never vanished from my memory. When I was in my twenties someone who lived on her block told me that India had married a well-known trumpeter and relocated to Queens.

It’s been 49 summers since I’ve seen her, but I still imagine India’s voice providing background vocals to the pop songs of 1975 and picture her pretty face whenever the Technicolor classic Rear Window streams across the computer screen.

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Harlem born and raised scribe Michael A. Gonzales writes about neo-noir culture for CrimeReads, NYC memories for Oldster and out-of-print African-American novels for various outlets.