These were generally foreigners, resigned to paying outrageous sums for medical care in the US. American motel guests were either uninsured or reluctant to see a doctor if they hadn’t reached their deductible. Or they belonged to an HMO and never paid a doctor directly. Offering to take less usually worked except with HMO members who remained indignant at the concept of a medical encounter their insurance wouldn’t cover.

Calls arrived regularly from the Banana Bungalows, a youth hostel in the hills north of Hollywood.

A Dutch woman with a bad cold wanted a visit. Hearing the fee, she assured me she had insurance. I had to remind her that European travel insurance (unlike that from South America and Asia) requires clients to pay up front then file a claim. Hearing this, she decided to wait, promising to call if she weren’t better. I told her she probably didn’t need a doctor, gave some advice, and phoned a pharmacy to prescribe a cough medicine. Prescription cough medicines are not superior to those sold over the counter, but patients believe they are.

A German explained he had a fever and had broken out in pimples, adding the pleasant information that he had “very good insurance,” so he wanted a housecall and would pay for it. This was my favorite scenario. The phone call had provided diagnosis: chicken pox. It was simply a matter of driving, informing the patient, giving the usual advice, and collecting his money. Sometimes hotel doctoring was easy.

The Banana Bungalows were probably a converted motel: small cabins strung out along several narrow alleys off the Hollywood Freeway. I parked near the largest bungalow just off the road. Reaching the front desk required passing through a room containing several battered couches on which sat a handful of guests watching a VCR movie in TV. Although they came from around the world, hostel guests resembled American college students. Perhaps the men looked scruffier, the women more stylish. Also, like college, there were fewer black faces but an impressive number of Asians.

The desk clerk directed me toward a bungalow a hundred yards up the hill. When I knocked, an unhappy voice invited me in the half-open door. The shabby interior contained four double-decked bunk beds, all unmade. Papers, food cartons, luggage, and clothes littered the floor, and there was no other furniture, not even a table where I could write. The air smelled of unwashed bodies: a typical hostel.

I sat on a vacant bed and introduced myself. One glance confirmed the diagnosis. A minor illness in children, chicken pox can be a serious matter for an adult. Fortunately, this was a mild case. That was the good news, I informed him. The bad news was that he was contagious for a week after the rash appeared.

“I must fly home Friday.” In three days.

“I don’t think the airline wants you on board with chicken pox,” I said. “On the other hand, most adults have had chicken pox, and children are usually immunized. If not, they should get it as soon as possible.” I added that the man’s insurance might pay for the change of itinerary. Whether or not it paid, I suspected he would board the plane on schedule. Everyone yearns to get home.

Walking down the hill, I puzzled over the appeal of youth hostels. They charged thirty-five dollars a night, a bargain. But cheap motels began at fifty dollars and offered privacy as well as an unshared bathroom. Rental cars surrounded each bungalow, essential for solo travel in the U.S., and the cheapest rental ran to a hundred dollars a week. Perhaps young foreigners like to clump together. Back at the front desk, I stood on tiptoes to peer over and examine the reverse side. I counted four vivid red stickers displaying the name and phone number of other housecall doctors. A year earlier, I had given in and paid eighty-five dollars for a thousand stickers of my own design, a more dignified blue on a white background. I never solved the problem of getting them posted.

I caught the eye of the desk clerk, a youth with a shaved head, tank top, and jeans. The quality of front desk personnel varied directly with the quality of the hotel. Since hostels were a nonprofit enterprise, their employees fell below the bottom of the scale.

“Could I speak to the front desk manager?” I asked.

“I guess that’s me.”

“I’m Doctor Oppenheim.” No sign of recognition. “I just took care of the man in bungalow ten.” The clerk nodded only to show he was listening. “Did you call a doctor?”

The clerk shook his head.

“Maybe one of your colleagues?”

“I’m the only one on duty.” It was a mystery how often I found no one who would admit referring a guest. I began my sales pitch.

“Who do you call when a guest wants a doctor?”

The clerk shrugged. “Nobody gets sick much. We send them to an ER.”

“You must call someone. Someone called me. And look at those stickers.” I reached forward to tap the far side of the counter. The clerk looked down, but his expression remained blank. I pressed on. “All the hotels use me. Your guests can call any time. I’m happy to talk to them. That doesn’t cost anything, and half the time I solve their problem.”

At chain hotels, employees maintained eye contact and a smile as I spoke. I often sensed their lack of interest, but at least they remembered their manners. The Banana Bungalow’s clerk kept nodding to encourage me to get to the point. He flicked an impatient glance at a guest standing nearby.

“I notice others have their numbers posted. Would you mind adding mine?”

“No problem.” The clerk snatched the sticker I held out and then turned to the waiting guest. I decided not to hang around to make sure he posted it. For the hundredth time I wondered how other doctors got business from motels and cheap hotels. Motels didn’t have general managers, and the people behind the desk, often the owners, seemed uninterested in providing anything except lodging. Yet nearly all had stickers plastered behind the front desk. It’s possible rivals hired someone to tour every motel with the sole purpose of making a sales pitch and pasting a sticker. That was a businesslike tactic, I told myself, but I never felt the urge to do the same.

Mike Oppenheim