Three Kinds of People Live in the Basement

The first thing I noticed about the basement was not the mold.

It was the smell.

A layered smell—stale cooking oil, damp clothes that never fully dried, raw concrete, and something faintly sweet, like cheap laundry detergent. It was the kind of smell that told you people had been living here for a long time, long enough for their lives to sink into the walls.

The landlord walked ahead of us, jangling a heavy ring of keys. The stairway was narrow, lit by a single exposed bulb that flickered as we descended.

“Cheap,” he said over his shoulder. “But safe. All our own people.”

At the bottom, he unlocked a metal door and pushed it open.

“That’s it.”

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The basement was divided into three small rooms connected by a narrow hallway. You had to turn sideways to pass someone.

The innermost room had no windows at all.

The middle room had a vent taped together with yellowing plastic.

The outer room, closest to the stairs, had a window at ground level—just high enough to show the feet of people passing by.

The landlord pointed at the innermost room.

“That one’s the cheapest.”

I didn’t move.

“Who lives there?” I asked.

He paused, just long enough to tell me the answer mattered.

“An old man.”

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I learned later that there are three kinds of people who live in basements.

The first kind is the kind that has nowhere left to go.

The old man’s last name was Zhou. No one seemed to know his full name. He woke up every morning at five, boiled water carefully, and brewed tea in a chipped enamel cup.

The first time we spoke was by the washing machine.

“You’re new,” he said.

“Yes.”

He nodded. “Which room?”

“The middle one.”

A small smile crossed his face. “That’s not bad.”

Later I realized he never asked why anyone lived in the basement.

Because he had already been here nearly ten years.

________________________________________

Mr. Zhou used to be an accountant.

Back in China.

“I wore dress shirts,” he told me once. “Ironed them every day.”

Now his shirts always smelled faintly damp, the collars frayed and soft.

“How did you end up here?” I asked once, carefully.

He thought for a moment.

“At first, it was to save money,” he said. “Then upstairs didn’t want old people.”

“And after that?”

He looked at me. “After that, you get used to it.”

There was no bitterness in his voice. If anything, he sounded like he was comforting me.

As if to say: A person can adapt to any depth, as long as they stop looking up.

________________________________________

The second kind of person treats the basement as a stepping stone.

The middle room, next to mine, was occupied by a young woman named Lin. She was in her early twenties and worked at a nail salon in Flushing.

Her room was the messiest—walls covered with job ads, course flyers, scribbled notes.

“I’m only here for a year,” she said often.

“Once I save enough, I’m out.”

Her suitcase always stood near the door, never fully unpacked.

“Aren’t you worried about the dampness?” I asked.

She was applying fake nails while she answered. “Of course. But you’re supposed to suffer when you’re young.”

One night, sewage backed up through the drain. She ran into the hallway barefoot, crying as water soaked the floor.

“It’s not the dirt,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “It’s the thought that this might never change.”

________________________________________

The sentence she repeated most often was:

“Do you think upstairs is really different?”

I never knew how to answer.

Upstairs, people had windows. Sunlight. Conversations about the future that sounded normal.

In the basement, everyone talked about getting through.

________________________________________

The third kind of person is the one who insists they are only here temporarily.

That was me.

I lived in the middle room with the taped vent. Every morning, I woke up and checked my phone, then lay there for a moment just to confirm I was still in New York.

I told myself:

This is temporary.

Once the job stabilizes, I’ll move.

Once I sell a piece of writing, I’ll move.

But days passed, and I learned how to duck under exposed pipes, which tiles leaked after rain.

One morning, a frightening realization hit me:

I had started explaining the basement to newcomers the way Mr. Zhou did.

“Not bad,” I said.

________________________________________

One afternoon, Lin burst through the door, breathless.

“I got a new job!” she said. “Pays more.”

Mr. Zhou looked up from his tea. “That’s good.”

“Are you moving?” I asked.

She hesitated.

“Maybe later,” she said. “I want to save more.”

That night, the light in her room stayed on until dawn.

________________________________________

The turning point came during a storm.

Rain poured relentlessly, and water began creeping across the basement floor. We stood in the hallway, watching it rise around our ankles.

“Again,” Mr. Zhou sighed.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Lin sobbed. “I don’t want to live underground.”

I said nothing.

In that moment, I understood something clearly:

The basement was not an address.

It was a condition.

________________________________________

The landlord arrived the next day, knocking on pipes and muttering assurances.

“It’s fixed. Won’t happen again.”

“Will it?” I asked.

He smiled. “This is New York.”

Mr. Zhou returned to his room and brewed tea.

Lin began sending out resumes obsessively.

I sat on my bed and asked myself, for the first time honestly:

Which kind of person am I?

________________________________________

Lin moved out a month later.

Before leaving, she gave me the rest of her laundry detergent.

“Get out soon,” she said.

I nodded.

Mr. Zhou stayed.

One day he told me, “The apartment upstairs is vacant.”

“Why don’t you look at it?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Too many stairs.”

________________________________________

I left eventually.

Not because I suddenly made good money, but because one morning I realized I no longer wanted to live with my head lowered.

As I walked up the stairs for the last time, I looked back.

In that basement, there were still three kinds of people.

And New York never runs out of a fourth—

Those who believe they will never live there.