"Back when I went to grad school at Wharton, we actually learned real substance. These kids; these first-years at Goldman now, its flat-out ridiculous," blasted a large Indian-American at the bar.
He was middle aged, solid throughout, and wearing a dark creased pin-striped suit. His blue shirt, doubtless exhausted from a prim and proper day of meetings, had crept itself out from his girth, and now poked out, mostly untucked.
He was speaking to a young couple at the bar.
They clearly couldn't care less. But they were being polite. Smiling and nodding, but in between, their eyes darting at each other, trying to hatch a get-away plan. This was not possible. Raj was not self-aware enough to notice. And they were ill-equipped to stop him.
"And now, its like, I say I work for Goldman, and I still get that look. Like I single-handedly destroyed the economy," he went on. "Please. And I tell you, bonuses for the execs this year. Way down. And, I mean, that's a huge part of my comp."