Being Patrick

She is Tiffany Vowell, 18, of Milford, Va., a short and cute person about to be topped off by a rectangular cube of pockmarked, airbrushed foam.

"Gay?" says Vowell. "I really don't think so. SpongeBob and Patrick are just friends."

2:56 p.m. We make the final preparations for our first meet-and-greet at Nickelodeon Central. We'll have to wave, shuffle to the music that seems to be blasting everywhere and, of course, pose for pictures.

But because it's started to rain, we're going to have to do this under a canopy. And though trussed up in our suits, we're going to have to break the rules and run for shelter.

How come? I say. What's wrong with a sponge and a starfish getting wet?

"Your paint will run," says Vest impatiently. "And SpongeBob turns black."

3 p.m. It's time to exit the shack. Vowell offers some last-minute advice. "Don't be nervous," she says. "It's easy to stiffen up in there. But you don't want your movements to look forced." Fact is, when I try to move in the suit, I find myself wobbling, not walking. I am top-heavy.

Suddenly there's a loud crack. It could be thunder. It could be part of my costume snapping as I accidentally bump into a wall. I can't really tell.

3:05 p.m. The rain is coming down in torrents. Our walk is aborted, says Vest. "It's just too wet. But stand by."

3:48 p.m. Due to the haze in my suit and the delay, I realize I've been dozing. How much time has gone by? I slip my hand out of one of my arm pods to check my watch -- probably only a couple of minutes, I think.

SpongeBob and a friend are playing Monopoly to pass the time. Vest is checking the weather. No one has noticed my nap.

3:55 p.m. It's drizzling now, dry enough to make another try. I jiggle and shake my pods to wake up. My plastic eyeholes are small and scratched.