Robert Coover - A Night at the Movies Or, You Must Remember This

In the hallway on the stair landing, the lady in the white gown has fashioned a noose out of the pullcord Charlie dragged down from the drapes. She has tied the loose end around the broad railing of the balustrade and is fitting the noose itself around her neck. Her face is still smeared, her dress blotched, with custard cream pie. Charlie bounds toward her, holding up his baggy trousers with one hand, waving the other frantically, but the noose is already necklacing her pale throat. He pleads with her, he blusters, he cajoles, but the woman, leaning dangerously against the polished balustrade, gazes past him, down into the empty hallway. Charlie reaches toward her, but something in her dark clotted earnestness holds him back. He hops and dances around her, biting his nails, whimpering, his eyes filling with tears. He presses his palms together beseechingly, his pants fall down. He yanks them up, but sees that the woman has turned to look at him at last. Taking heart, he twirls his cane for her with one hand, then tries in vain to tip his hat and hold up his pants at the same time with the other. As he grabs for his pants, hat, pants, hat, her melancholy expression seems to soften. He prances around her in a frenzied teary-eyed imitation of glee, taking pratfalls, bumping his head, dropping his pants, losing his hat, attempting all the while to lure her away from the balustrade. She remains, leashed by the pullcord, but seems more and more caught up in his act. He juggles his hat and cane, plays peekaboo with her through a leafy potted plant, eats one of the leaves as though distracted by her beauty, executes a cartwheel without losing either hat or trousers, fiddles a tune on a barometer snatched from the wall. The woman wipes a blob of custard pie from her cheek as though brushing away a tear, seems to have forgotten the rope around her neck. Charlie, eyes darting about as though running out of ideas, removes his hat to mop his brow, discovers an old cigarette butt tucked inside the band. His face lights up. He puts the bent butt in his mouth, pats his pockets for a match, holding his pants up first with one hand, then the other. He shrugs, snaps his fingers, plucks an imaginary match out of the air, which he proceeds to strike on his backside. He jumps up in the air as though having set the seat of his pants on fire, then hops about fanning out the flames. The woman clasps her hands together in front of her face, peering at him over her fingertips. He struts up and down the landing, puffing on the bent cigarette, blowing imaginary smoke rings. He uses his vest pocket for an ashtray, stubs the butt out on the sole of his shoe, loses it momentarily in the hole there, pretending to have given himself a hotfoot. He finds the butt again, winks, flicks it over his shoulder, kicks it high with his heel, catches it in his hat. The lady seems fascinated now and, though she has still not smiled, watches him intently. Encouraged, Charlie plucks the butt out of the hat, holds it up before her, breaks it in two pieces, hitches his pants high, pinching them in place with his elbows, and flicks both bits of cigarette over his shoulders: he leaps up with both feet and kicks the two halves in the air at the same time, simultaneously dropping his pants. He catches one piece in his hat, lurches, shackled by fallen trousers, for the other, crashes into the young woman and knocks her over the balustrade. At first he cannot even grasp what has happened, spinning about frantically in search of the woman as though she might have vanished into thin air. He peers fearfully over the railing and discovers her there below, twisting and jerking at the end of the pullcord, struggling in vain to free herself. Charlie, aghast, tries to reach her, cannot, tries to pull her back up, lacks the strength. He fumbles with the knot around the balustrade, but his hands are shaking. He races down the stairs, tries to reach her from below, but she is hanging several feet above him, her feet twitching, kicking. He drags a chair over, leaps up on it, tries to hold her up by pushing on her feet, but her knees keep buckling. She kicks him in the ear, and knocks him off the chair. He scrambles to his feet, clutching his curly hair in anguish, spies the suit of armor. He tries to wrench away its halberd, but it seems permanently locked into the gauntlet. He cannot stop to consider alternatives: he hauls the whole apparatus, clashing and bouncing, up the stairs with him. He props the armor against the balustrade, takes a furious backswing with the halberd, and the suit of armor follows, crawling up his face and bowling him over. He struggles out from under, his face striped by cuts and scratches. He is no longer even trying to keep his trousers up, but neither does he have time to kick them off. He lifts the armor on his shoulders as though carrying a wounded warrior, takes another mighty backswing over the knotted pullcord, and the blade of the halberd flies off, disappearing through an open doorway. He dumps the armor off his back, grabs up his pants, and chases after it.

In the next room, however — the bedroom, as it turns out — the halberd blade is nowhere to be seen. He fumbles through perfume bottles, hatboxes, scattered clothing, finally turns to race out again without it, draws up short: the maid stands before the closed door, writhing provocatively, wearing nothing now but her bright white apron. She reaches beneath it and, pursing her lips, draws out the halberd blade, dripping with blood. Charlie gasps, whirls, and dashes pell-mell out another door.

He collides with a large leafy potted plant and goes sprawling across the brightly polished floor with its alternating black and white squares, slams into the stairway, and for a moment just lies there, holding his head. Then suddenly it all comes back to him — he starts up, looks one way, the other, straight ahead, up: the young woman in the white gown is directly above him, kicking feebly against her long skirts, her hands digging at the pullcord noose around her neck. Charlie jumps up and down, trying to run in all directions at once. He clambers up the balustrade, cannot reach her, jumps down, pushes a chair under the mounted deer's head, hops up and grabs the deer's nose, his pants falling around his ankles. He holds on with one hand while pulling his pants back up with the other, finally succeeds in throwing one leg over an antler and hauling himself up on the head. He stretches out toward the struggling woman, gives her a little push. She swings away from him, then back: he leans out and gives another push, harder than before. She swings further away, her skirts fluttering, her feet kicking, then back: he reaches out for her and at the same moment disappears from sight as the deer and antlers rip away from the wall and crash to the marble floor below. He disentangles himself from the wreckage. Soft shadows flicker back and forth across his terrified face, thrown by the swinging lady above him. He kicks the deer's head in bitter frustration, discovers the door behind it, gives it a try.

His face lights up when he finds himself in the bathroom. The policeman is in there, arms folded on his chest, standing near one end of the tub, which is now filling with water. Charlie grabs him, tries to drag him toward the hallway. The policeman, his helmet set square over his broad brow, his brass buttons polished and handlebar moustache neatly groomed, spreads his legs slightly, plants both fists on his hips, and squints down at Charlie, as though considering an arrest. Charlie is jumping up and down frantically, pointing at the door, mimicking a hanged man, begging the policeman to come with him. The policeman strokes his burly jaw thoughtfully, then squares his shoulders, slaps his billy-club in one big hand, and gazing past Charlie toward the challenge beyond the doorway, strides manfully forward. He steps on a bar of soap, his feet fly up in the air, and he falls — splat! — to his backside on the bathroom floor. He looks around in puzzlement, gets slowly to his feet, steps on the bar of soap, and falls — splat! — to his backside on the bathroom floor. He scowls, glances from side to side suspiciously, leaps quickly to his feet, steps on the bar of soap, and falls — splat! — to his backside on the bathroom floor. Charlie tries to help him up, but the policeman belts him with his billy, a blow that sends Charlie reeling and wheezing across the room. The policeman rises cautiously, steps on the soap, and falls — splat! — — to his backside on the bathroom floor. Charlie, still doubled over by the policeman's blow, is staggering back and forth from door to policeman to door to policeman, tearing out his hair and trying to keep his pants up. The policeman stands, steps on the soap, and falls — splat! — — to his backside on the bathroom floor. Charlie is weeping, banging on the wall with his fist. The policeman is standing, slipping, falling — splat! splat! — — over and over again. Charlie turns and stumbles despairingly out of the bathroom, face buried in his sleeve.