The “BMW“ in the Basement

Section Chief Wang had grown somewhat gaunt lately, his eyes sunken, as if something were gnawing at his spirit day and night. Those familiar with him merely assumed he was "busy with official duties, toiling for the nation." When occasional inquiries about his well-being were made, he would just wave a hand, revealing a smile that was both bitter and seemingly profound. No one knew that what truly robbed him of sleep and appetite wasn't the mountain of files piled on his office desk, but a silent, crouching "beast" in the basement of his old apartment building.

It was a brand-new "BMW" automobile, deep sea blue. Even in the dim light of the basement, it reflected a faint luster, like the scales of a dormant behemoth. The car was covered with a thick dust cloth, tightly sealed, like a respectable, impenetrable secret. This car was his heart's treasure, and also the thorn in his side.

How this car came to be, Section Chief Wang knew clearly in his heart. It didn't fall from the sky, nor did it sprout from the earth; in short, its origins were not entirely "upright and honorable." It came from a few thin cards, slipped into his hand one night amidst drunken revelry, accompanied by low murmurs of "Section Chief Wang has worked hard," and "Just a small token, hardly a sign of respect." He had refused at first, pushing back, his face flushed red, as if deeply insulted. But the hand's grip was surprisingly strong, the tone incredibly sincere, and in the end, the cards burrowed into his pocket as if they had a life of their own. Later, the cards transformed into this car. When he went to see the car, the saleswoman smiled sweeter than any flower, addressing him repeatedly as "Mr. Wang," which made him feel comfortable all over, as if the car rightfully belonged to him.

The day he picked up the car, he deliberately chose the crack of dawn on a weekend, when the sky was just beginning to lighten and pedestrians were scarce. He didn't dare drive it home. Instead, he drove in several large circles, like a thief, finally parking it cautiously in the basement of the old residential complex assigned by his work unit. This basement, usually piled high with junk from various households, dark, damp, and overrun with rats, actually saved him a lot of worry – people rarely ventured down there.

From then on, this "BMW" became Section Chief Wang's secret. He dared not drive it out. Drive it out? For whom to see? Colleagues? Neighbors? Or those strangers on the road? He was just a section chief; the numbers on his payslip were plain to see. How could he afford such a "beast"? Wasn't this blatantly telling everyone, "I" have a problem? He could almost feel the probing, suspicious, even gloating gazes, like countless fine needles, pricking him all over, making him deeply uncomfortable.

Thus, this "BMW," a symbol of status, position, and wealth, could only humble itself in this sunless basement, keeping company with discarded tires and broken furniture. Every day after work, Section Chief Wang would first go down to the basement for a look. He would lift a corner of the dust cover, wipe the emblem with his sleeve, or gently stroke the ice-cold car door. The touch brought him both satisfaction and fear. He would carefully check if the cover was properly in place, if there were any new spiderwebs in the corners, and would even hold his breath to listen for any unusual sounds. Each descent felt like a secret pilgrimage, and also like a confirmation of the incriminating evidence.

Sometimes, he would sit in the driver's seat. Without turning on the lights or the air conditioning, just sitting quietly. Gripping the steering wheel, he imagined speeding down wide roads, imagined the envious glances from others. However, the more beautiful the fantasy, the stronger the fear of reality became. The musty, dusty smell of the basement, mixed with the distinct leather scent of the new car, created a bizarre and oppressive atmosphere. He often sat like this for half an hour, until his legs grew numb, then he would start abruptly, scramble out of the car, replace the cover, lock the door, and leave as if fleeing.

If he encountered a neighbor in the hallway who greeted him warmly, "Section Chief Wang, back home?" his heart would jump, and he would force himself to respond calmly, but his steps would inevitably quicken, as if a ghost were chasing him from behind. Back home, when his wife asked why he looked so pale, he would just mumble, "Tired." Lying in bed at night, he often suffered from insomnia. The slightest noise outside, a rustle of wind or the honk of a car, would make him sit bolt upright, heart pounding, suspecting someone had discovered his secret, wondering if the Discipline Inspection Commission had come knocking.

As time went on, the "BMW" in his heart gradually ceased to be a symbol of glory and instead became a heavy burden, a bomb that could explode at any moment. He even began to resent it somewhat. If it weren't for this car, perhaps he could still sleep soundly, still smile openly in front of his neighbors. But then he'd reconsider – could he really blame the car? He shook his head and sighed.

Lately, the atmosphere at work had become tense; rumor had it that higher-ups were launching a strict investigation. Section Chief Wang grew even more restless. His trips to the basement became more frequent, each visit feeling like a farewell. Looking at the "BMW," still new yet covered in a fine layer of dust, an inexplicable sense of absurdity washed over him. What was the point of this? He had gone to such lengths to acquire this thing, only to let it rot here, hidden from the light of day? He felt like a miser guarding a cellar full of moldy gold, daring neither to use it nor bear to discard it.

One evening, he went down to the basement again. He didn't open the car door, just stood numbly in front of it. The basement light bulb flickered on and off due to poor contact, emitting a sizzling sound. Rats seemed to be rustling in a corner. He suddenly felt that this car, like himself, was trapped here. Outside, there might be sunlit avenues and boundless scenery, but neither of them could get out. Or rather, they dared not go out.

He leaned wearily against the cold car body, feeling a chill seep into his bones. Perhaps, he thought, after some time, when the storm passed, things would be alright. Perhaps it would never pass. Perhaps one day, this car, along with him, would be dragged out of this dark corner by some sudden force, exposed under the broad daylight.

He didn't know when that day would come. He only knew that before it arrived, he had to continue guarding this secret, continue to dwell in this fear- and absurdity-filled basement, accompanied by his "BMW" that could never drive onto the open road. A rat in the corner squeaked again, sharp and piercing, as if mocking something. Section Chief Wang shivered, pulled his collar tighter, turned, and slowly, step by step, walked up the stairs. The hallway light was dim yellow, stretching his shadow long, very long, and distorted.