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My buddy Larry calls me every now and then. We arrange to meet at the Bonita American Legion Club to have lunch and catch up on what’s happening in our lives (he runs a business in Ohio. I am long retired). He gets there early and saves a seat for me at the bar. Midday the place is crowded with aging veterans sipping brew and sharing old and new stories.

“How you been since last, Lar,” I ask, as I mount my stool and he motions to the barmaid for a couple more cold ones. “Don’t ask,” he shrugs and grimaces. I had violated my own rule: not to ask any in the retiree crowd, “how’ve you been.” Much too often this opens up a long dialogue on a latest surgery, be it cataracts, stent, by-pass, basal skin cancer, whatever. Or, the “counts:” what’s up, what’s down — cholesterol, blood sugar or pressure. And the “been taking for” litanies citing this or that medication for a catalog of geriatric pains and those “some may experience” woes. I’m sympathetic with human misery, but it doesn’t take long when I find myself among the medicare mob for me to be weary of the details of geriatric degeneration. When I can’t run, I usually try quickly to change the subject. Larry is a pretty healthy guy, but of course he’s only in his 60s. But he leads into, “had the gout last week.”

For my readers, gout is not a rare occurrence, but it is an unfamiliar affliction to many. The name itself is rather funny. “Gout?” Eh? (A cold? Does it itch? Infected?) To the never-yet afflicted, it sounds, at first hearing, minor, slight — in the rash, allergy, or indigestion families. Not so. You see, I’ve been there, with the gout, more than once. Those not yet “with it” may have heard vague references to “the rich man’s disease” associated with high living, little exercise and ample gourmet foods and drink. Founding father Benjamin Franklin penned a “Dialogue Between Franklin and the Gout” while in the throes of a 1780 episode, one of many he suffered in his later life. Last week at the Legion Club the “dialogue” was between me and my former marine friend Larry.

Retirees like me generally, I think, are quickly bored with discussion of ailments or procedures and health histories that they are not yet acquainted. But it is likely I will join in if an emergency room or hospital story is one I have shared. “Where was it and how bad?” His first gout experience, Larry understood why this would be the first question any former gout victim would ask of any newly initiated member of the “rich man’s” club. It struck his left foot and within a day had him limping with a crutch. (Gout is an arthritic condition. Yes, rich food, inactivity and alcohol contribute to outbreaks. It could attack any joint, but most often the lower extremities.) His brow furrowed as he said, “my big toe swelled to apple size!” He pointed down and I saw he was wearing a slipper on that foot. “Oh, much better this week. An emergency room visit shot and then pills gave me relief, but, oh, those first few days. If we could inject gout into terrorists, we could forget about water-boarding.” Tough marine Larry, always reaching for the laugh.

At this point, a veteran a few stools to our left motioned the barmaid to serve us a couple more beers. We saluted a “thanks”. He called out: “My pleasure. Couldn’t help but overhear you guys. I served in the Viet Nam jungles and never experienced any pain there as bad as my “bout with the gout” when I got home!”

Always the old English teacher, I took this moment to inform Larry and others that we shared our pain with that great American Ben Franklin. “How did he have a so-called ‘dialogue’ with gout,” they asked. “If I recall,” I said and noticed several others at the bar leaning forward to hear better. “Ben began by asking Gout: ‘What have I done to merit these cruel sufferings?’”

Gout replied: “Many things; you have ate and drank too freely, and too much indulged those legs of your in their indolence.” Larry interrupted, “Indolence? What the hell’s that?”

I smiled. “Laziness. No exercise.”

Then our Vietnam vet bar pal asked, “True. Damn it. And how did that conversation end?”

“To the best of my recollection,” I added, it ended with Ben pleading with Gout to never return: “Oh, oh, leave me — for Heaven’s sake leave me! And I promise never more to play at chess, but to take exercises daily, and live temperately.”

The bar broke out in laughter. Above all Larry shouted “we’ve all made those promises often, eh? Sure.”

“But wait there’s more,” I continued. “Gout ended the chat with: ‘I know you too well, Ben. You promise fair; but, after a few months of good health you will return to your old habits.’”

More laughter. And someone offered a toast: “To that old Gout. He knows all of us ALL TOO WELL!”