What Are You Supposed To Be

What kind of car is that? I yell, looking out the window. Just an ordinary car, my husband says. With a star on it and a cherry on top? A police car? He guesses. What on earth has he done? Has he killed somebody? Is he a mass murderer? Is he getting served divorce papers? I glare at him, wondering if he is a bigamist. He goes to the door to open it. Steps outside. Sure. He does not want me to know what it’s about. I run over and rip open the door. It’s his buddy Jake, dressed as a police officer. What are you supposed to be? I demand. Jake and Joe both stare at me. “I think I’ll be the sheriff,” Jake says. I had forgotten he was running. Because we live in a different county. I congratulate him and go back in the house, much meeker now.