"I'm Sorry, I'm New Here"

The first time the girl said it, she was opening a checking account for a customer: "I’m sorry, I’m new here."

The new girl said it so much that the woman got tired of hearing it. She tried tuning it out but it came out of her mouth everywhere. The new girl hit the wrong button or gave back too much change — "I’m sorry, I'm new here." She used the wrong broom to sweep or folded the credit card applications the wrong way (they’d gotten in trouble for making the fold where the interest information was) — "I’m sorry, I’m new here." 

The girl had taken the woman’s office. "That office should have been mine," the woman said off-handedly to the new girl one morning. 

"Oh, nobody told me," the girl said. "I'm sorry, I'm new here." 

The woman had heard it for days. It seemed so pathetic, such a flimsy excuse for ineptitude. Yes, she wanted to say, you are new here— so learn your place and do it right. Some of the other girls took shortcuts in their work but they had been there a while so it was okay. But the girl had not yet earned that privilege. 

One morning the woman bumped into the girl in the breakroom. She saw the new girl had made coffee. It smelled acrid, like a dirty college boy had brewed it for his latest victim. 

"I usually make the coffee and have the first cup," the woman said. 

"Oh," the girl said happily, staring into her black coffee (the woman always used creamer, which the girl didn’t put out), "I’m sorry, I’m new here."

"Well, I'm not upset, I'm just telling you. I usually make our coffee," she reminded the girl cheerily before leaving the breakroom.

Two days later, she pulled into the bank to find her parking spot taken by a silver Ford. It was her favorite spot and everyone knew it. It was close enough to the front door and the woman could see it from her desk so if anyone tried to break in, she’d have the police out lickety split. That was her favorite phrase; she thought it made her sound homespun, down to earth, less uptight than the men at the bank would tease her for. 

She mentioned the parking spot to the new girl. "It’s just easy to see my car from my desk so I can kind of watch, that's all."

"Well, we have cameras so I’m sure your car will be just fine wherever you park," the girl said encouragingly and smiled at her.

"Right. Well, that’s not the issue," the woman said firmly. "It’s my spot, I can see — "

"I didn’t know we had assigned parking," the girl said abruptly.

"We don’t but everyone knows that’s my spot but it's okay for now," the woman continued. 

The girl shrugged. "Okay, sorry, I’m new here, I didn't know." She didn’t move her car, the woman noted. 

Two mornings after that, the new girl took to alphabetizing canceled checks. That was something the woman liked to do. It gave her time away from customers. 

"I usually do that," she said, laughing.

The girl waved her off. "You weren’t here yet so I just started. It’s no trouble. I can have 'em done lickety split." She stared into the woman’s eyes. 

"It’s just that we all have opening duties and now I don’t have anything to do and so now I look lazy because of you. I'm not mad at you," the woman said heartily, "I'm just telling you."

The new girl looked hurt. "Oh sorry," she said, "you won’t look lazy. Tell them it’s my fault. They’ll go easy. I’m new here." Leafing checks with one another to organize them.  

The woman complained to the bank manager but of course nothing could be done. Give her time, he said. He was fat, small-minded. She's still new here. The woman heard it in her sleep. She heard every actor on television say it. The birds sang it into her window each morning. The leaves swirled like tornadoes and when they settled, they whispered those words into the air. A cashier said it to her one day: the woman was in the middle of putting her meat on the belt and the cashier reached over the meat, choosing instead to nestle bread in the bottom of the bag. 

"Sorry, but dear," the woman said plainly, "you should put the meat in first. That way my bread won’t be crushed. I'm sorry, I'm not telling you how to do your job."

She said it the way a civilized woman would say it. 

"Oh you’re right, lemme fix it." The cashier was more than amiable. As she shifted the woman’s groceries she looked up and said apologetically: "Sorry, I'm new here." The woman dropped her blueberries right there and went running from the store. 

Over the next few weeks, the new girl's attitude began to change dramatically and she became withdrawn. She began receiving anonymous phone calls. At first just breathing and then someone whispering words the girl couldn’t make out, then finally threatening and insulting the girl, a raspy, angry, gravelly voice grunting out words like “cunt” and “cocksucker.”

She told the woman that she thought it was an old boyfriend and changed her number. She gave everyone at the bank her new number. The calls continued, but they were more graphic; the voice threatened to rape the woman as she left work one night and knew things about her job schedule. Her car was egged several times both at her house and at the bank. 

As the attacks continued, the new girl began to realize that the other girls here had not taken a liking to her and she worried the phone calls were from a coworker. She confessed to the woman one afternoon over lunch. 

“I think one of the girls here has it in for me,” the new girl said, nibbling on the corner of her sandwich. The woman hated nibblers. 

The woman said, “Nonsense! Everyone loves you!”

But the new girl shook her head. “You’re the only one I trust,” she said. 

She had reason to be afraid. The next day, someone poured peach juice into her smoothie in the breakroom fridge, sending her to the hospital with bright red patches of hives all over her body, gasping for breath: she was deathly allergic to peaches. When she returned two days later, stinking of calamine, she found that someone left a note that read "Fuck you" in black Sharpie in between the bills in her drawer. Several tellers were around her space all day, but cameras caught nothing interesting. 

They found a black Sharpie in one girl's drawer; another was found with a bottle of peach juice. Both girls protested their innocence; both were suspended. The new girl requested a transfer to another branch two cities over. The woman watched her pack up and leave. The girl passed the woman, who she knew was a friend, and said "I just can’t take this anymore." Her eyes were full of tears as she hugged the woman, who told her she would miss her. 

After the girl left, the woman moved her car back to her space, began to move her belongings into the new office, poured the girl’s bitter lukewarm coffee down the drain, and threw away any evidence of her crimes that she had not planted elsewhere.