Christy Marks Taxi Instant

“I just… I don’t want to be a person who disappears.”

One rainy Tuesday evening, Christy picked up a fare from the Amtrak station. A young woman, maybe twenty-five, dragging a suitcase with a broken wheel and wearing a coat too thin for November. She looked like she’d been crying, but not recently—more like the crying had settled into her bones. christy marks taxi

She was sixty-two, with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a tight bun and reading glasses hanging from a chain around her neck. Her taxi, a battered but reliable Crown Victoria she’d named “Mabel,” smelled of coffee, old leather, and the pine tree air freshener she replaced religiously every first of the month. The medallion on her door read “C. Marks,” and beneath it, in smaller letters: “No music, but good conversation.” “I just… I don’t want to be a person who disappears

“Yes.”

The young woman was quiet. Then, softly: “What happened to him?” She was sixty-two, with silver-streaked hair pulled back

Most people respected the sign. Those who didn’t learned quickly that Christy had a way of reaching back and turning off their Bluetooth speaker without looking.