The Hotel New Hampshire by John Irving Page A

linebacker he could have been!”
    So Father kept Earl chained, most of the time, and tried to make him wear his muzzle. Mother said that Earl was depressed—she found the old bear increasingly sad—but my father said that Earl wasn’t depressed in the slightest. “He’s just thinking about dogs,” Father said. “And he’s perfectly happy to be attached to the motorcycle.”

    That summer of ’40 Father lived at the Bates house in Dairy and worked the Hampton Beach crowd at night. He managed to teach Earl a new routine. It was called “Applying for a Job,” and it saved wear and tear on the old Indian.
    Earl and Father performed in the outdoor bandstand at Hampton Beach. When the lights came on, Earl would be seated in a chair, wearing a man’s suit; the suit, radically altered, had once belonged to Coach Bob. After the laughter died down, my father entered the bandstand with a piece of paper in one hand.
    “Your name?” Father would ask.
    “Earl!” Earl said.
    “Yes, Earl, I see,” Father said. “And you want a job, Earl?”
    “Earl!” said Earl.
    “Yes, I know it’s Earl, but you want a job , right?” Father said. “Except it says here that you can’t type, you can’t even read—it says—and you have a drinking problem.”
    “Earl,” Earl agreed.
    The crowd occasionally threw fruit, but Father had fed Earl well; this was not the same kind of crowd that Father remembered from the Arbuthnot.
    “Well, if all you can say is your own name,” Father said, “I would venture to say that either you’ve been drinking this very night or you’re too stupid to even know how to take off your own clothes.”
    Earl said nothing.
    “Well?” Father asked. “Let’s see if you can do it. Take off your own clothes. Go on!” And here Father would pull the chair out from under Earl, who would do one of the forward rolls Coach Bob had taught him.
    “So you can do a somersault,” Father said. “Big deal. The clothes, Earl. Let’s see the clothes come off.”
    For some reason it is silly for a crowd of humans to watch a bear undress: my mother hated this routine—she said it was unfair to Earl to expose him to such a rowdy, uncouth bunch. When Earl undressed, Father usually had to help him with his tie—without help, Earl would get frustrated and rip it off his neck.
    “You sure are hard on ties, Earl,” Father would say then. The audience at Hampton Beach loved it.
    When Earl was undressed, Father would say, “Well, come on—don’t stop now. Off with the bear suit.”
    “Earl?” Earl would say.
    “Off with the bear suit,” Father would say, and he’d pull Earl’s fur—just a little.
    “Earl!” Earl would roar, and the audience would scream in alarm.
    “My God, you’re a real bear!” Father would cry.
    “Earl!” Earl would bellow, and chase Father around and around the chair—half the audience fleeing into the night, some of them stumbling through the soft beach sand and down to the water; some of them threw more fruit, and paper cups with warm beer.
    A more gentle act, for Earl, was performed once a week in the Hampton Beach casino. Mother had refined Earl’s dancing style, and she would kick off the big band’s opening number by taking a turn with Earl around the empty floor, the couples crowded close and wondering at them—the short, bent, broad bear in Iowa Bob’s suit, surprisingly graceful on his hind paws, shuffling after my mother, who led.
    Those evenings Coach Bob would baby-sit with Frank. Mother and Father and Earl would drive home along the coast road, stopping to watch the surf at Rye, where the homes of the rich were; the surf at Rye was called “the breakers.” The New Hampshire coast was both more civilized and more seedy than Maine, but the phosphorescence off the breakers at Rye must have reminded my parents of evenings at the Arbuthnot. They said they always paused there, before driving home to Dairy.
    One night Earl did not want to leave the breakers at