Insane Intern Story

Now that we are in the midst of intern season, I thought of sharing my intern story. 

I interned at a high-end boutique (think Evercore, Guggenheim, CenterView) in a Tier 1 city. On one of the final Fridays of the summer, an analyst mentioned hitting up a bar later that night. Soon, he and another intern showed up at my apartment to pre-game. I handed out a couple beers, but it was obvious the analyst had already been drinking heavily — he looked completely sloshed.

On the walk to the bar, things took a turn. The analyst started mocking the other intern, deliberately calling him “Roshan” — the name of another Indian intern — and slung his arm around me, saying, “My boy here can fuck you up.” Then he knocked the beer out of the intern’s hand, sending it flying across the pavement.

Inside the bar, the bullying escalated so badly that “Roshan” left early. That left just the analyst and me. He turned to me and said, “Forget that kid — he was no good. You and I are going to have a great night.” I stayed. I feared leaving would hurt my reputation and ruin my shot at paradise: the return offer.

Then things got even darker.

With one eye half-closed, he pointed across the room: "You see that guy? Yeah, him... He's a n____ ass f_____." 

I froze. The slurs continued. 

He repeatedly shouted at the bartender, "Show me your tits!" and started banging on the bar. Minutes later, he grabbed a woman at her hips. 

Then he turned to the male bartender, shouting: "You're a fat fuck — I could beat you up!" (Ironically, the analyst was even more of a fat fuck than he was.)

At one point, he told a stranger I was gay and got me free tequila shots. I clarified I wasn’t but took the shots and bailed.

Later, he pointed at a group of 6'5 guys and told me, “Me and you — we’re gonna fuck these (I am sure you can guess the word here) up.” Believe me, even if I wanted to, we wouldn’t have stood a chance.

He kept yelling, “Look at all these losers — they wish they were me.” In that moment, I wondered: Is this really what the culture of IB is all about? Maybe, but the golden handcuffs were sure to get to me before I can really ever consider that. 

The final kicker? He was texting his girlfriend while I tried to get him home, and I accidentally caught a glimpse of one message out of a sea of paragraphs:

“My face still hurts from when you swung at me last night.”

I carried his barely conscious body back to his apartment. To my shock, his girlfriend was inside. Without noticing me, she screamed: "You're such a fat fuck — you look disgusting!" Then she noticed me, said “Hi, my name is Emily,” and slammed the door.

As I tried to quickly exit, she stormed out again: “Oh my God — is he wasted?”

No, Emily. He was closer to unconscious and deceased than drunk.

Are these type of stories common? Anybody have a similar story?