On my last day, i woke up and called my butler to bring around my car and pack it. The previous afternoon I had driven by the Alaska House searching for The Hack, but the huge Confederate flag hanging in the window didn’t encourage me to approach.
I phoned up the mayor, and asked if he wanted to meet me for lunch before I left for the airport. I suggested the No Name. “Then we’re going to be doing shots at one p.m.,” the mayor said.
When we arrived, steam was coming off the heated bench The Hack built. It seemed fitting that I hadn’t found him. In my mind, he was a part of Park City that was vanishing. I wondered if he even existed at all. Then I noticed a plaque on the side of the bench with a phone number. I took out my cell and called it.
I didn’t even know what to say. We chatted for a few minutes. Turns out, on a whim he’d recently decided to get a phone. He was in Salt Lake City for a while, on account of a girlfriend. He was sorry he missed me. Did he care to say anything about Park City? “I don’t know what I’d say for a magazine article,” he decided. “It’s changing. I don’t know what to expect, you know what I mean?”
“I do,” I said. Then I thanked him and went inside to do a shot with the mayor.
Julian Rubinstein is the author of Ballad of the Whiskey Robber (Little, Brown).