Question Authority, Even If It Is The Mafia

Growing up as a timid kid, I often heard my parents say, “Stand-up for yourself, because if you don’t, who will?” While their words resonated deeply, putting this lesson into practice was anything but easy. It wasn’t until my final summer as a college student that I truly understood just how challenging—and transformative— standing up for oneself could be.

In April of my junior year, I faced a pivotal decision: how to spend my final summer before diving into the "real world." Should I continue my job at the state capitol working for the governor, or take a leap and head to an island in the Atlantic Ocean to work in a place rumored to be run by the mafia?

I chose the mafia.

Well, not quite. I opted to bartend at an establishment believed to be operated by a mafia boss, based on tales from my friend Petra who had worked there the previous summer. She regaled me with stories of island life, her eccentric boss, celebrity encounters, wealthy patrons, and the incredible amount of cash she had made. It was all so alluring.

So, after our last final exam, Petra, another friend Wendy, and I embarked on a night drive from Michigan to Rhode Island, ready to kick off our summer adventure.

Any doubts I had about my new boss being in the mafia disappeared the second I met him. Mr. Rossi* had steely gray eyes that felt piercing. He never smiled. His voice, eerily reminiscent of Marlon Brando in The Godfather, added to his cold, calculating demeanor. He walked with a limp—a bullet to the hip, they whispered, meant for his heart. And the other guy? Supposedly, he ended up with his feet set in concrete, thrown overboard alive. After meeting Mr. Rossi, like all the other college-age employees at his restaurant, I decided to steer clear of him.

On our first day of work, it became clear that the position we had been promised was not what we were getting. We were bartenders, yes, but we were assigned to the small service bar used by the dining room waitstaff to fill drink orders, not the grand,150-foot-long, rectangular, cherrywood main bar with 4 distinct pouring stations where all the wealthy patrons mingled.

The main bar was the place to be. It’s where the piano player entertained and movie stars, professional athletes, and corporate CEOs spent wads of cash into the wee hours of the night. Landing a spot on the main bar was the reason we drove from Michigan to Rhode Island. It was also the reason I had given up a cushy, resume-boosting job at the governor's office. Mr. Rossi had promised us positions on the main bar, but at the last second, had given our spots to his nephew, Marco*, and others looking to cash-in on favors, we figured. So, we found ourselves at the service bar, making $10 a night in tips, a pittance compared to the hundreds we could have made on the main bar. We were incredibly frustrated but dared not question or complain.

Petra and Wendy opted to become cocktail waitresses. I stuck with the bartending job hoping that eventually I’d get a lucky break and be moved to the main bar.

Finally, it happened.

Marco, the bar manager, met a woman who lived off-island. To see her, he had to leave the island which meant he needed someone to fill in for him on the main bar. That someone turned out to be me. Naturally, he chose to take off on Monday, when the restaurant was closed, and Tuesday, the slowest day of the week. On top of that, he only wanted me to work the very slow day shift on Tuesday. But I didn't care. I was thrilled to be working the main bar and felt certain that when Mr. Rossi saw what a hard worker I was, he would finally give me the job he had promised.

On my first Tuesday at the main bar, I arrived early to set up and noticed the bar had not been cleaned in a very long time. That day I served just four patrons—local fishermen who each had a sandwich and a beer during their lunch hour. After they left, I decided to get busy. I wiped down every surface, mopped the floor, polished all the stainless steel sinks and meticulously cleaned all four refrigerators. By the end of my shift, the place lookedand smelled - much better than when I had arrived. While scrubbing away, I noticed Mr. Rossi sitting in his chair by the front door. Between greeting guests, he watched my every move. It was unnerving, to say the least.

On my second Tuesday, in between pouring drinks for just six guests, I organized the four pouring stations according to bartending standards. This meant arranging all 80 bottles in the same order at each station which would make drink-pouring much faster and far more efficient on busy nights. That same day, I found a $10 bill on the floor. I brought it to Mr. Rossi who was seated on his throne by the front door watching my every move. He didn’t say a word to me—not “Thank you” or “You can keep it”. He just took the bill and put it in his pocket.

Following both Tuesdays, Petra, Wendy and I were asked to help Marco work the main bar on Friday and Saturday nights. As Petra had promised, it was crazy fun, fastpaced and lucrative. I was hooked.

On the third Tuesday, I was fired. So were Petra and Wendy. They heard the news before I did and were already packing their bags when I arrived at our room after my morning bike ride. I asked why we had been fired. They didn’t know and didn’t care to find out; they just wanted to leave the island and find better-paying jobs on the mainland. I couldn’t fault them, but I wasn’t willing to leave the island without first talking to Mr. Rossi. If I had been fired, I wanted to know why. Petra urged me not to confront him, saying nobody questions Mr. Rossi’s authority. But my mind was set. I was going to question him, even though it would require every bit of courage I had.

With adrenaline coursing through my veins, I hopped on my bike and pedaled the two miles to the restaurant. When I arrived, my mouth was dry as cotton, and my stomach knotted with tension. I approached Mr. Rossi’s office with great trepidation, took a deep breath, and knocked on the closed door.

“Come in,” he said in his low, throaty Marlon Brando voice. He was seated at his desk, facing the door. I stood before him as there were no chairs for visitors. Wasting no time on pleasantries, I began, “I understand I’ve been fired. Is that true?”

“Yes, it is true,” he replied, his steely gaze unwavering.

I continued, “I’d like to know why.”

He responded, “I understand you’ve been drinking on the job and stealing money from the tip jar.”

I could feel my blood pressure rising. Being fired was one thing; being fired based on false accusations was intolerable. Despite my inner agitation, I calmly replied, “That’s interesting, Mr. Rossi, because I don’t drink. I don’t drink on the job. I don’t drink off the job. Secondly, I don’t take what’s not mine as evidenced by the fact that I brought you a $10 bill I found on the barroom floor. I don’t know where you’re getting your information, Mr. Rossi, but I assure you those two accusations are absolutely false. At the same time, I suspect you have not been made aware of all the positive contributions I’ve made to your business since I arrived, so let me fill you in.

“Number 1. I meticulously cleaned every inch of your beautiful bar from top to bottom: every refrigerator, shelf, counter, bottle and inch of floor space was cleaned in between customers.

“Second, I organized the pouring stations on the main bar according to bartending standards. Now, all 4 pouring stations are complete with their 80 bottles in the exact same order on each station which means pouring time has easily been cut in half. As a result, your patrons get their drinks faster and you make more money.

“Lastly, I don’t know if you’ve noticed that I get along with all your customers - from the local fisherman to the Hollywood celebrity. I treat them all as guests in my own home.”

Speaking in earnest, I added one final argument, “You are the boss here, Mr. Rossi. You get to choose who you hire and who you fire. But I’ll tell you this: if you let me go, you’d be losing a very dedicated, honest and hard-working employee and that would be a BIG mistake.”

And with that, I turned around and walked out on legs that felt as wobbly as Jello.

Riding back to my room in the motel Mr. Rossi owned, I realized I now had bigger problems. I had no job, no place to stay, and my friends had left the island with our only car. Worse, since I had questioned the authority of my mafia boss, I felt pretty certain I had not seen the last of him. What that might entail, I had no idea, but I wasn’t going to stick around to find out. Once back at my room, I hastily began throwing my clothes and toiletries into my backpack, unsure of where I would go or what I would do next.

Twenty minutes later, the very thing I dreaded happened. He came for me. I was almost finished packing when I heard the unmistakable sound of his old green pickup truck pulling into the empty dirt parking lot below. My heart jumped; my pulse quickened. I peeked out the curtains. It was him. He began yelling my name in his raspy East Coast accent. "Cawlleen! Cawlleen!" I so wanted to ignore him and pretend I was already gone. Instead, I opened the door. Seeing me, he yelled louder, “Cawleen, come here!”

With great caution, I approached his truck unsure of what was about to transpire.

“Yes, Sir?”, I asked with all the vocal strength and confidence I could muster.

He replied, “I spoke to the person who made the accusations about you and discovered he was lying, so I fired him. I would like to offer you the job of bar manager starting immediately.”

I considered this twist of events for a moment, uncertain if my fear of him or my love of the island would prevail. Eventually, I responded, “I accept. Thank you.” I turned to walk back to my room, and as I did, he added, “One more thing.” I turned to face him again.

“What you just did in my office took a lot of courage, didn’t it?”

“Yes, sir, it did.” To this he responded, “You have earned this promotion and with it, my respect.”

That summer was a turning point. Mustering the courage to stand up for myself with my mafia boss was the ultimate test. It showed me that if I could question him, I am capable of standing up for myself with anyone. While I still find confrontation difficult at times, the memory of that one encounter fuels my courage whenever I need it most.

*Names have been changed.

Colleen Kilpatrick is a Speaker, Creative Collaborator and the Author of “Eliminate What You Tolerate: A simple, proven way to regain focus, increase productivity and liberate your energy for the more important things in life.” She inspires people to bring their best gifts to the world.