Beatrice Loude tossed her apron into the laundry cart and unsnapped her crossover chef’s jacket. She pulled her undershirt from her waistband and encouraged sultry kitchen air into the space between the fabric and her skin. She was drenched with sweat. Simply soaked.
The dining hall air conditioning was broken again. Without exhaust fans, the kitchen would have been intolerable. The stale influx of outside air brought little relief. As she stepped out of the building, the intense late afternoon sun was in retreat beyond the shadows of the camp’s tree-lined perimeter. The heat and humidity took her breath away, like a steaming towel around your face at a day spa.
“Be proud, Bea Loude!” shouted an approaching voice. It was Leah Strange, her only friend at the upscale adult camp.
“Make way for Loude and Strange,” the camp counselors teased when the inseparable pair walked between buildings or along the short path to the seasonal employees’ cabins.
“Job of a lifetime, my ass,” said Bea I’m half delirious by closing. Can you believe the air is broken again?”
“Oh no, I’m sorry,” said Leah. She worked along the beach, helping pampered guests learn stand-up-paddle or kayaking, Baby Boomers mostly, trying to recapture childhood glories.
“At least I can get into the water. I mean, it’s kinda gross but it helps. I shower a lot.”
“The Lerious,” Bea muttered under her breath.
“What’d you say?” asked Leah.
“Oh nothing, just a story my mom told me when I was little. She told me I was being delirious and I thought she said The Lerious. It became kind of a running gag in our family. Any time we misbehaved she said The Lerious was gonna get us.”
“So where did The Lerious come from?” asked Leah.
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