Later Hecht had taken me to the old haunts of the Chicago literary scene. We sat in a tavern he had frequented while working on the now defunct Chicago Journal. He showed me where Hemingway took boxing lessons. We went to the building where Ben had lived on the fourth floor and Hemingway on the floor beneath. It was a time not long past, yet far away and long ago.
We viewed the former locale of the Dill Pickle Club, the famous literary tavern. Ben talked to me with personal insight about Sherwood Anderson, Theodore Dreiser, Maxwell Bodenheim, Covici Friede, and others, among them, some of whose fame lay in tragic ends—death by drink, suicide, or merciless twists of fate.
Not long ago, I phoned Ben at his home in Nyack, New York. Red Quinlan, the television executive, had an idea for a series of literary shows to be called, “You Can’t Go Home Again.” He had talked to me about being narrator, and I in turn had suggested Ben Hecht for the first interview.
“Ben,” I said, “this is Stuart Brent. Do you remember me?”
There was a flat, “Yes,” as though he didn’t, really.
“I’m calling to tell you,” I said, “that we have a great idea for a TV show and I want to interview you for it. It’s called....”
“I don’t want to hear it,” he said. “I don’t want a living thing to do with TV. Don’t tell me what you have to say. I don’t want to hear it.”
“Wait a minute,” I said, “you haven’t given me a chance.”
“I don’t want to give you a chance,” he said. “I have no use for TV or anybody who writes for TV. It’s worse than snaring little girls away from home.”
“You still don’t understand,” I said.