“Shit.” A tall, middle-aged man has dropped his ice cream.

“Shit!” he shouts louder, shouting to his friend, who laughs. “That cost me three bucks.”

He looks at the ice cream on the street a little while longer—can he pick it back up? No. This is clearly not the solution. He skulks away and his friend, still laughing, follows behind.

The ice cream on the ground has already started to melt. The day is warm, but a relieving and fresh kind of warm that follows a stormy day. The streets of Crown Heights are surprisingly quiet for a Saturday afternoon in late summer. The exception is the area surrounding an ice cream truck, which is surrounded by kids who have been back at school for long enough that Saturday has become a luxury once again.

Follow along the corner from the ice cream truck, and you can see the long stretch of Eastern Parkway. Trees line this street, yet to show any signs of fall. Every fifth house or so features people sitting on their stoops. A lady and her elderly mother sit and read. Most people simply stare. The opportunity for this sort of activity will quickly diminish as the weather cools.

A woman stands outside of a house that appears to be sinking sideways into the sidewalk. She witnesses the ice cream dropping but seems to be unfazed, impervious to her surroundings, as if all of this is of no consequence to her.

It seems that here in the last syrupy days of summer, those who can make it out collect in the streets. Their hub: the nearest ice cream truck. And at this truck, the tall, middle-aged man re-joins the line, back for another try.