The call comes in for an emotionally disturbed person in Marine Park – the quiet little neighborhood I live in. My partner Bronson and I pull up across the street from a supermarket on Quentin Road and see two police cars parked behind a recognizable van. “Oh no,” I say. “Not Rockin’ Ray.”

A fixture of Marine Park, Ray drives a hand-painted Econoline with script along the side panel that says, “Rockin’ Ray: The Guido Hippie.” It also bears every conceivable message for better living. They are written large, small, sideways, and lengthwise – kind of like the Dr. Bronner’s Peppermint Soap bottles from the 1970s. I check out some of the inscriptions: “Dream as if you’ll live forever, live as if you’ll die tomorrow” and “Peace dude.” According to the rear panel, Ray gives boxing lessons. He extols the virtue of morality and the right hook. There’s a lawn chair strapped to the roof rack, and next to that a chessboard glued to a small table. There are megaphones that broadcast the Mets game when the season is right. Generally, you hear Ray before you see him.

Bronson points out a huge spiderweb shatter on the windshield, as if someone hit it with a baseball bat. Over the cracked glass are smeared the scarlet words: Ex-Wife Strikes Again. “Oh dear,” I tell Bronson. “I hope he’s okay.” We go into a small apartment house and I ask the four police officers, “Is Rockin’ Ray okay?”

They’re standing in front of a locked door. “It’s not Ray,” one says.

“Thank heavens,” I exhale. May Rockin’ Ray live to be 100, ex-wife notwithstanding.

An officer squints at the lock on the door, sizing it up. “Got a possible suicide. Guy said his friend said he wanted to kill himself.”

“But you’re sure it’s not Ray,” I say.

He shakes his head again. “Name’s Arthur.”

I peer through the gap at the bottom of the door and can see the bottom part of a chair and two feet in sneakers. A person appears to be seated there, unmoving. Another officer says, “I can kick it down.” He tries, and the door rattles in its frame, but doesn’t break. A third male officer tries unsuccessfully.

Then, a short, stocky female officer, his partner, gives it a kick, and the door splinters and goes crashing down. “Don’t say it,” she tells her partner.

“I loosened it for ya.”

“I said don’t say it.”

We go inside to find a young man seated in the chair wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and a silver foil balloon over his head with a piece of lavender party ribbon tied tightly around the neck. A hose leads to a tank cylinder, hissing gas. “What kind is it?” an officer asks.

“I’ll sniff it,” Bronson says.

“You will not,” I say, pulling him back by his shirt collar. I turn off the gas, glove up, and remove the balloon from the man’s head. He’s obviously dead, but I do the routine checks anyway, and make a series of circles with slashes on my chart. Breathing: nil. Pulse: nil. Blood pressure: nil. I look around and see photos of the dead man at work. He was a clown, for children’s birthday parties. One picture shows him in full costume, riding a unicycle.

“I didn’t know helium could kill,” I say.

“Maybe it’s not helium,” Bronson says. He goes to the tank, turns it back on, and takes an unused silver balloon from the bag beside it. The police officers all watch as he fills the balloon, turns off the tank, releases some, and sniffs it gingerly. He shrugs, puts the balloon into his mouth, and inhales.

“The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain,” he squeaks, three octaves higher.

We all burst out laughing. We can’t help it.

“Okay, now we know, helium kills,” I say.

“Anything kills, when there’s no oxygen mixed in,” the female officer says.

Her partner claps his hands. “Okay, let’s find some bullets,” he says. We look around, but there’s no suicide note, just more pictures on the coffee table of the dead man in clown makeup and fright wig, twisting balloons into animal sculptures amid semicircles of eager children.

“Clowns are sad,” Bronson says, picking up a photo and letting it drop.

“But it’s the faces of the children that get me,” the female officer says. “Look at them. They’re so happy.”

The juxtaposition of their bright and shining eyes and the grim reality of the dead man in the chair is making me nervous. I leave the apartment and go outside on the pretext of finishing the paperwork. It’s a beautiful spring day, the kind that fills you with hope for the future.

The downstairs door opens. “You okay?” Bronson asks, stepping into the bright sunlight.

I fold the paperwork and shove it into my breast pocket. “I’m fine,” I lie.

He shakes his head. “Weird stuff,” he says, and points to a deli. “Wanna get lunch?”

I shrug. “Sure,” I say, without conviction. But all I really want to do is go over to Ray’s van and sign up for boxing lessons. Ride around on his lawn chair and listen to the game. Play chess. Embrace every word of wisdom on his hand-painted van. Dream as if I’ll live forever, live as if I’ll die tomorrow.

Ms. Klopsis is an emergency medical technician on an ambulance in Brooklyn. This column details her observations and experiences. Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of patients.