How the painter had come to rent this closet is a long story. We'll just say that he was one of the many gullible souls who were promised a fortune for their little apartments, their only property, and who woke up the next morning on a bench in a park, trying to remember what had happened and why their apartments were sporting new locks and curtains.
As for the corner under the stairs, the painter lived there on credit. The janitor hoped that someday the painter would win the lawsuit he had filed against Adik, the crook who had swindled him out of his apartment, and would then pay what he owed. As the painter's back rent accumulated, however, the janitor felt more and more aggravated at the sight of his prone body when he came in early in the morning to get his shovel or his broom. Loud scenes began to take place. The janitor screamed that in the whole universe there was only one kindhearted fool who would give away valuable housing and tolerate not being paid for six months. "You owe me a cool million, you hear!" the janitor yelled, brandishing his broom, while the painter pulled his coat over his ears. "Pay up or get lost! There's a line waiting!" He ruminated: "Or I could rent you out, instead. I could post an ad—'Slave for Rent, Three Years' Payment Required.' But an ad costs money and time. That's it. Go to the hospital and sell a kidney—you got two, one too many for one person." The janitor carried on like that every morning, like a rooster; thankfully, unlike a rooster, he had two days off every week, and that was when his poor tenant could get some sleep.
