IN retrospect, I realize that I never specifically mentioned to the painting contractor that I would need to open the door. To my apartment. To, you know, get out and go to work and that sort of thing. So perhaps I only had myself to blame.

These were my first thoughts one recent morning when I discovered that my front door had been painted shut, that I could not pull it open from the inside. (These thoughts were quickly followed by searing rage and fantasies of murder.) When I called down to the lobby to ask if someone could rescue me, the doorman seemed a bit confused. Until I mentioned the painter’s name.

The Painter — he will remain nameless here, for I have no desire to ruin the man’s business prospects, and perhaps other people would appreciate what I will call his peculiarities — had originally been recommended to me by a neighbor. I went to look at the neighbor’s paint job and it was, indeed, perfect, the Painter’s work clearly, as reported, meticulous.