Christy Marks Taxi =link= May 2026

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.

“Long ride,” Christy said. “Buckle up.” christy marks taxi

The woman’s eyes glistened. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill, and pressed it into Christy’s hand. “Keep the change.” One rainy Tuesday evening, Christy picked up a

Christy glanced in the rearview mirror. “Sometimes. Why?” “Long ride,” Christy said

The young woman was quiet. Then, softly: “What happened to him?”

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.”