“I had a fare once,” Christy said, “a man named Leo. Old guy. Used to work at the steel plant before it shut down. Every Wednesday at 7 PM, I’d pick him up from the VA clinic and take him to a diner on Grand Avenue. Same diner, same booth, same cup of black coffee. He never said much. But one day he told me: ‘Christy, you know why I take your cab? Because you’re the only person who still calls me by my name.’” She paused. “I picked him up for three years, every Wednesday, until he passed.”
Christy Marks had driven a taxi in this city for twelve years, long enough to know that every fare was a story folded into a backseat. Some were loud, some were silent. Some left nothing behind but crumpled receipts and the ghost of cheap perfume. But Christy remembered them all, because Christy was the kind of woman who paid attention. christy marks taxi
“Long ride,” Christy said. “Buckle up.” “I had a fare once,” Christy said, “a man named Leo