Nina Godiwalla - Suits: A Woman on Wall Street

To my mom and dad, for giving us everything

A s I walked to JP Morgan, I didnt see anyone around except the sidewalk food vendors. At every third corner, a massive semi would drive up to a street corner and a vendor would hop out, open the back of the truck, and push his little rectangular steel food cart down the ramp. I kept pace with the ColdSoda-WaterSnapple guy, the Shish Kebab guy, and the Nuts 4 Nuts guy. They were a global collectivePakistan, China, and Guatemalawho had adopted New York as their new home, paving the way for their kids futures. I was on my own journey from Texas, off to conquer Wall Street.

Before I arrived in New York, my dad impressed upon me that subways were places where people could get knifed in broad daylight, so I walked from Thirty-fourth Street and First Avenue to Wall Street. In Texas, I had never been on any public transportation, other than a Greyhound a few times, so the New York City buses with their transfers and the trains with theirs were so intimidating that I decided to walk. It made me feel more in control. Plus, Manhattans 2.3-mile width was less than the width of my suburban neighborhood outside Houston. Looking at the map, I estimated it would be an hours walk, but I left three hours early just in case. Its always better to play it safe, my dad had said.

A purposeful walk four miles to work solved this issue of navigating the daunting subway system and also gave me an outlet for my nervous energy. I was an hour and a half into my trek when my Payless heel got stuck in a steel grille. Id spent at least a half hour at Payless Shoes choosing these sensible heelsnot too high, not too low, not too thin, not too thick. How could they be the precise size of a hole in a New York City grate? It was lodged so tight that I could not get it out. Not now, heel. Not today. I struggled desperately, and now I was covered in the sooty smoke that angrily erupted from the drain. Leaving the shoe in the grate, I hobbled into the only store open, Larrys Fish Market, and was instantly hit by the smell of fish guts. The first three guys in white aprons splotched with blood never looked up from gutting fish. There were no smiling faces welcoming me with, Good morning, miss. What can I do to help you this morning? I guessed what they said about New York was true.

Can someone help me? My shoes stuck in the sidewalk grate, I said, walking across the cold tile floor on my tiptoes. I anxiously waited for a minute before repeating myself. At first I thought they might not speak English, but it soon became apparent that they were blatantly ignoring me. My shoes stuck! I shouted. I cant go anywhere until I get it out! The fourth man wiped his sweaty forehead with his arm. I waited for several minutes before he looked up and took in my pathetic stateone pantyhosed foot standing in fish blood and the other foot wobbling in a heel made for a grown-up. Someone, please help me. He shook his head. What! he screamed at me with an accent that reminded me of a Corleone from The Godfather. You really cant get your shoe out?

I cant! I whined desperately. I came all the way from Texas. And Im going to miss my first day, I said, balancing on one footone shoe on, one shoe offand squinting so that he wouldnt notice that my eyes were starting to water.

He rolled his eyes and slammed his sawtooth knife against the fish table to let the excess blood fly off. Where is it? he said, sprinting out of the store.

I hobbled behind him like someone who was just coming off an all-night bender.

With one sharp slash, he took his knife and sliced off part of my heel, letting it fall through one of the slits in the grille. The heel splashed into a pool of black sewer water. He threw the shoe toward my feet, splashing blobs of fish juice and blood onto my left calf. He walked off with his stiff arms swinging side to side, his shiny knife splashing blood and fish juice onto the sidewalk.

Thank you, sir! I said in my sugariest Southern hospitality pitch. Thank you! I yelled out to him. Thank you so very much, sir!

Thirty minutes later, the JP Morgan skyscraper towered over me. Outside the building, stock exchange traders stood sucking on cigarettes, anxiously pacing back and forth. They wore bright-colored vests and jackets labeled with investment bank names. Just being around their intensity excited me. With the confidence of an everyday Wall Street banker, I fiercely pushed the full-glass revolving door and was instantly faced with two people at a desk who looked like miniatures in front of the two-story deep green marble panel towering behind them. Is that real marble? Im here to meet with Gail Grover, I informed a woman wearing a CIA headset at the desk.

Thats 60 Wall, she corrected me.

Okay, I said standing, waiting with a friendly smile. I cant wait to get an ID card.

She repeated, Its 60 Wall.

Which way do I go? I asked, overwhelmed by the numerous elevator banks.

Out the door, she said, pointing to the revolving door.

But Im working for JP Morgan. What is it with these New Yorkers?

Congratulations, she said with a smile. So am I. But, honey, were in 15 Broad. You want 60 Wall Street. JP Morgan is a big company with many buildings. Go out the door and take two rights.

I shook my head at my reflection as I pushed the revolving door. The New York soot clung to my sweaty face, and loose strands of my low, tightly pulled ponytail were hanging messily. Dont forget to pull back your shoulders and smile when you walk in.

I had only seen the New York Stock Exchange on television. I felt minuscule as I stood before it. I covered my mouth to contain an uncontrollable smile and wished someone could take a picture of me. My parents, who were both of Persian descent but had grown up in India, would take it to a ParsiPersian-Indianfunction and pass it around before dinner as the samosas were being served. A magnet from Manic Uncles law practice would hold it to their fridge at home, and my grandparents would get a blown-up five-by-seven-inch copy in India that they would carefully protect in a quart-size plastic baggie and pass around at friends dinner parties. All of this would confirm my success on Wall Streetor at least that Id gotten there.