Riding the R train, a disheveled man boards at Atlantic Avenue. He’s pushing a filled-to-the-brim cart and takes a seat opposite me. The train car is nearly empty, and, taking advantage of the empty space around him, the man starts unpacking his cart. His physique is haggard: gaunt face, toothless, stringy hair pulled back in a ponytail, dirty, off-beat clothing (frayed Spiderman jacket over bright Bugs Bunny T-shirt). His accouterments clue me in to his métier: tied on strings around his neck are a red clown nose, a clown horn, a comically-oversized ring of keys. There’s a long pink balloon tied to the other side of this pushcart. As the sad clown is fussing with the cart, rearranging its items, I notice he’s talking to someone. He removes a carrying case from the cart, out of which he extracts a living, pink-clad Chihuahua. He sets the Chihuahua down on his lap, removes a pink blanket, places the blanket on the seat next to him and the Chihuahua down on the seat. The dog too, in its disaffected manner, has something comically sad about him. The sad clown begins fussing with the dog, removes the carrier from his cart, places it on the seat beside him, puts the dog back in the carrier. He takes bag out of the carrier, puts it on the floor, opens it: it’s filled with empty balloons. He begins rearranging various bags of balloons, taking out different colored balloons, inspecting them, replacing them. He removes a plastic pump, a device for blowing up balloons, takes it apart, cleans the gasket, reassembles it. The whole time he’s performing this work he’s shifting in his seat, fidgeting, and his behavior seems to consist in equal parts discipline and distraction. He finishes sorting and fine-tuning, returns the bag to the cart, makes some adjustments to the accouterments hanging around his neck, sticks the dog carrier back on top of the cart, and departs the train at 14th Street.