Sure enough Sal was still there, polishing away. He had his earbuds in, and as George approached he could hear the tinny jangle of doo-wop music leaking out of the tiny speakers. Sal didn’t see him right off so George hung back and watched the man work. Sal lived next door and the men became acquainted from proximity more than anything else, sharing a common wall in their kitchens and living rooms. Sal was a friendly, outgoing, red-faced, stocky, retired plumber replete with a serious beer belly. He also was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s, as well as a host of other medical problems, all of which he had been in the habit of discussing ad nauseam with George. Sal had never understood the fact that George was a radiology resident rather than a clinical doctor, so he constantly plied George with questions outside his specialty. Then a few months ago he had stopped. Although George had appreciated the respite from answering the same questions over and over, he was curious as to why they had suddenly stopped.
As George watched Sal work, he realized sadly that after his living in Los Angeles for three whole years, Sal might have been his closest friend. It was unfortunate, because there was little commonality and few shared interests.
As George observed his neighbor, he prepared himself to have a conversation about cars, and one car in particular. From previous interactions George was well aware that Sal’s fire-engine red convertible was a 1957 Oldsmobile Golden Rocket 88 with a 371-cubic-inch displacement Rocket V8 with J2 Tri-Power carburation. He also knew that it produced 277 horsepower under the control of a Jetaway Hydramatic transmission. George didn’t know the first thing about the engine or transmission in his own Jeep, but as for the vehicle in front of him, he knew everything and nothing. Finally, he reached forward and tapped Sal on the shoulder.
Sal’s face lit up in a broad smile. He yanked out his earbuds.
“George! Check it out,” he said, pulling George around to his side of the car. “Just today I found a pair of original, mint-condition floor mats.” He opened the driver’s door and pointed to two mats still wrapped in plastic. “They’re primo! Primo!” Sal also had the habit of repeating phrases.
“Nice!” was all George could come up with. Floor mats were floor mats as far as he was concerned, but he didn’t want to dampen Sal’s enthusiasm. “Gonna take them out of the plastic?”
Sal hesitated. “I’d hate to mess them up,” he said as he pulled George back to the front hood, which he was about to open. “Have I showed you my new carburetor yet—”
George had seen the carburetor. At least three times, and he was not looking forward to a fourth viewing. He took a risk and steered the conversation away from the car even if it might open the proverbial floodgate. “How’s it been going with your urinary tract symptoms? Still get that burning?” Suddenly George’s curiosity had gotten the best of him. He also felt sorry for Sal since everyone else in the apartment complex steered clear of him so as not to have to slog through the same health-related conversations day in and day out. George knew the man had two older sisters and had even met them once during his first year in L.A., but George hadn’t seen them since, though Sal often talked about them longingly. The guy was pretty much alone in the world. All he had was the Oldsmobile. And George, for whatever that was worth.
Just then the sound of a horn made both men jump. George looked around for the offending automobile. But there wasn’t any. The horn was the ringtone from Sal’s phone. The man snapped it up from the car’s front seat and switched on the speakerphone.
“Hello, Sal, it’s Dr. Wilson. You’re on speakerphone. Is it all right for me to talk?”
“Yeah, sure, it’s okay. Sure,” Sal responded.
“I’ve noticed two things over the last few minutes,” the physician said in a rich baritone. “Your blood sugar has been falling lower than I would like and your heart rate is over one hundred. Take a moment and have something healthy to drink, like orange juice, and then rest for a spell. Is that possible?”
“Can I finish polishing my car?”
“I’d rather you did not. It would be much better if you got some sugar now, along with some rest. When your pulse rate stabilizes, I’ll let you know. Then you can go back to polishing the car.”
“Okay, okay.” Sal turned off the phone and glanced guiltily at George.
“What doctor was that?” George knew that Sal’s primary-care doctor had been Dr. Roland Schwarz, and that clearly was not he on the phone.
Sal glanced around to make sure no one else was within earshot. He shielded his face with his hand and spoke in a low voice. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone but you are a doctor, so it probably doesn’t matter. My new doctor is something called iDoc. It’s a—”
“I know what it is,” George said. He was shocked. iDoc again! “When did you start using the app?”
“It’s been a month or two now, I guess. Month or two. I can’t remember exactly.”
George was taken aback. After a presentation that day heralding a new paradigm for medicine based on digital technology, he found out his neighbor was part of the Amalgamated beta test. It was a shock, not as much as ascertaining his deceased fiancée was part of the program, but a shock nonetheless.
“Can I see your phone?” George asked.
“Sure. Sure.” Sal handed it over, pleased that George was taking an interest.
George turned the phone over in his hand. The phone’s protective case was a startling electric orange. “Quite a shocking color,” George said.
“I picked that out myself. I was always misplacing the damn thing. Now it’s hard to miss.”
George turned the phone over to look at the screen. He stared at the iDoc icon on the screen, just like the one on Kasey’s phone and just like the one on the huge LED screen at the Amalgamated presentation. “How long did you say you’ve had it?”
“Can’t remember exactly. My mind isn’t sharp as a marble anymore.” He laughed at his own joke. “A couple of months or so, I guess.”
George suddenly understood why Sal’s medical questions had stopped. He had a 24/7 doctor in his pocket who didn’t mind being asked the same questions over and over. “Do you like having a doctor to talk with whenever you want?”
“Love it. I use it all the time. Love it,” Sal said. “I used to have trouble remembering to take my meds, but not now. iDoc tells me whenever I need to take something. And it’ll remind me if I forget. But most important, I don’t have to think about the insulin anymore. It’s automatic. Auto—”
“What about Dr. Schwarz?” George interrupted. “You used to see him quite a bit.”
“Not anymore. Nope. Not anymore. He put the reservoir thing in, but that was the last time I saw him.” Sal raised the waistband of his T-shirt to show George a thin, nearly invisible scar on his left lower abdomen.
George’s reaction was complicated, adding to his general unease.
“But you’re by far the best doctor I’ve ever met. The nicest, too,” Sal said. He seemed to have sensed George’s not-so-positive reaction.
“And the name, Dr. Wilson?” George asked. “Where did that come from?”
Sal blushed. “I hope you don’t mind. I had to pick a name…” Sal didn’t finish his sentence.
“It’s okay. Really! Thanks, Sal. I’m flattered. But I gotta go. Make sure you follow iDoc’s advice and rest up.” George handed Sal back his phone. “Catch you later, buddy.”
“Later, Doc. Later,” Sal said, watching George walk off. He pocketed his phone and started to put away his polishing kit.