DeeDee* parked her white Cadillac in her usual spot, the fire lane. Perfectly coiffed and lacquered, she pushed through the double doors, entering the restaurant lobby. She dumped an assortment of luxury shopping bags from Neiman Marcus and Lord & Taylor on a chair.

I was assaulted by an uninvited whiff of DeeDee’s expensive perfume. Her face was layered in Lancome. DeeDee favored bright red nail polish and glossy lipstick. Her short brown hair was poofy, chiseled and shellacked, each strand cemented in place. 

“I’m so exhausted,” DeeDee said. “I’ve been shopping all day at Cope-Ley place in Boston. I bought three dresses for $100 each and two pairs of shoes for $60 each, and, and…”

It was 1985. Envision an internal eye roll in my 20-year-old body. I feigned sympathy for her self-imposed affliction: CCF – Conspicuous Consumption Fatigue.  

Self-talk chattered in my mind:  “Yup. Sure. Whatever, DeeDee. Actually, it’s Copley Place, named after John Singleton Copley, the 18th c. portraitist. But then, you wouldn’t know about him. Why, exactly, are you telling ME, your lowly employee, about your gluttonous shopping spree? I prefer museums. I’m only working here to earn my next tuition payment.” 

I was a few hours into my ten-hour shift at Demitri’s Surf and Turf. I started working there at fourteen as a “Hat Check Girl.” Six years later, I was hostessing. I could be bussing, waitressing, selling cigars, or hanging customers’ heavy mink coats. I was there so much; customers thought I was related to the owners. 

DeeDee plopped her enormous Gucci bag at the register and extracted her wallet. I knew the drill. She favored “crispy” cash. She splayed tens and twenties on the counter that lacked adequate crispiness. I opened the cash drawer, trading “crinkly” for “crispy” banded-at-the-bank bills.

When you worked at the restaurant where your dad moonlighted, you did what you’re told. I didn’t make waves. I didn’t smoke Marlboros with the older waitresses, escapees from failed marriages, outside the kitchen door. I lied when wives of my father’s customers — car salesmen bent over their beers — called at dinnertime to ask, “Is Marty there?” “Is Joe there?” I ignored wedding guests snorting cocaine in the chandeliered Ladies Room. 

I watched. I listened. I learned.

DeeDee’s husband Demetri, a Greek immigrant with a seventh grade education, built his fortune shucking clams and boiling lobsters. He could be kind. He once handed my sister cash when noticing her work shoes were worn. Demitri could also yell and throw dishes. I feared and felt sorry for him working in the hot kitchen while DeeDee sated her appetite for retail gluttony.

I asked Demitri for a night off to attend Junior Prom. “No” he said and walked away. I hid in the coatroom, crying, and got a nosebleed.

The waitresses formed a posse and marched into the kitchen. Alyne, the bravest one, pointed out to Demitri I was there every weekend and every holiday. I even showed up with a sprained ankle, limping around the dining room with an Ace Bandage, lugging heavy trays of dirty dishes to the kitchen. Customers would ask. “Are you OK?” Demitri relented. I went to Prom.

DeeDee and Demitri lived in an extravagant mini-mansion with their young son. There were gold-plated bathroom fixtures, wall-to-wall turquoise carpeting, and crystal doorknobs. I was never inside their home; DeeDee made a point of boasting to me, a working class kid, about it. 

I once asked DeeDee if I could leave early to study for a next-day, mid-term exam. DeeDee agreed, then her friends showed up. She sat down to dinner with them, abandoning me to run the lobby. Cue: Another round of tears in the coatroom.

DeeDee grew up working class like me. I opted to attend college. I suspect she resented my ambition. 

I resented DeeDee’s casual causticness, acting superior while embodying Nouveau Riche garishness. Among her DeeDee-isms:

• “You don’t have to thank her,” she told her young son as a waitress delivered his free meal in the restaurant’s dining room.
• “No employee is irreplaceable.” Gosh, why was it so hard to get a night off?
• “Throw this away” as she handed me the job application of a young Black woman who stopped by.

The ultimate DeeDee-ism, one which left a deep and enduring impression, requires explanation.

A study abroad scholarship propelled me overseas, leaving behind the smell of lobster carcasses and DeeDee’s excessive perfume. I returned to work at the restaurant that summer. Charlie and Mary, regular customers who’d gifted me a Bon Voyage card and $15 before my trip, arrived for dinner.

“It was so lovely to get your postcard,” Charlie said. 

“How was your trip?” Mary asked.

DeeDee reached past me, grabbing menus to seat them and muttered under her breath, “Some people send postcards; I buy dresses.”

Yup. Yes. Indeed. 

*Names changed to protect confidentiality