pant cuffs matters little if it does not contribute to interpreting the relationship between, say, dance and masculinity. But sometimes, a single detail in a moment, like the ruffles on a dress that Walter Benjamin privileged, has a way of unsettling these preconceived ideological narratives. Given its surreal appearance, what everyone apparently remembers about the film is the moment when a fur coat descends on Jean Arthur's head. Let us think about this late 1930s screen memory, if you will, in relation to the kind we are familiar with. One of the distinguishing features of a screen memory, as Freud defined it, is its capacity to evoke connections to other, seemingly unrelated memories. "Its value as a memory," he noted, lies "not in its own content but to the relation existing between that content and some other, that has been suppressed" (126). Following that contention, we might ask, what connections does the uncanny moment in a screwball comedy like Easy Living uncover that have been suppressed by traditional histories of Classic Hollywood? What would such connections say about Hollywood filmmaking in 1937? "Two Unlikely Worlds Are Suddenly Joined" Like other romantic comedies, Easy Living is driven by a chance encounter between two dissimilar worlds. When Mary (Jean Arthur) runs into Ball (Edward Arnold), the economic and social worlds of a working girl and a billionaire suddenly collide. J. B. Ball, the baron of Wall Street, and Mary Smith, a young girl working for a little magazine called The Boy 's Constant Companion, meet cute when he throws his profligate wife's fur coat from the roof and it lands on her. The coat becomes Mary's, who is then assumed to be Ball's mistress. And everyone, of course, wants to please the mistress of the "Bull of Broad Street." She is lavished with gifts, attention, and a free stay