Alvin stood back and admired his work on the homemade sign leaning against the mirror behind the barber chair.
The sign was a piece of cardboard tacked onto an inch wide, three feet long piece of plywood. In large black letters written with a marker it read:
“Alvin,” I asked, “what’s with the sign?”
“Yeah, Alvin, did you vote, yet?” Leroy said.
“Yes, I did, for your information. I practiced my civil duty and voted the minute the polls opened. Now, have you clowns voted, huh?”
None of us said anything. Leroy looked like he didn’t understand, which is his usual expression.
Jabo tried to appear to be thinking.
Me? I stared at the sign as if I didn’t understand what Alvin was doing.
“I thought so,” he said, lifting the sign off the shelf, “you clowns have argued all this time bout how you like Obama, and yet, you sure slow gettin in the votin booth.”
We followed him outside and watched him stick the sign in the yard in front of the shop. We followed him to the sidewalk, and we all turned and looked at the sign. It was crude but effective.
“I’m outa here,” I said and started walking down the street toward my car.
“What, where you goin?” Alvin asked.
Jabo and Leroy, catching on, followed me to the car.
“Hey, you clowns, you gon leave me here by myself? Where youall goin?”
I looked back at him. “We taking your advice. We going to vote.”
“Man, I can’t close my shop right now. I might have a customer.” He looked lonely standing on the sidewalk watching us.
We kept walking.
“Wait a minute, just wait a damn minute, and I’ll come with youall.” He turned, walked to the shop, shut the door, locked it and followed us.
Jabo stopped. “Alvin, where you goin. I thought you voted already.”
“Okay, so I lied. I was plannin on votin tomorrow. I just wanted to make you clowns aware of early votin.” He explained. “Wait a minute, I have to do something.”
We stopped and waited. He went back inside the shop and hung a sign in the door window:
CLOSED GONE VOTING