Eugene

SpongeBob taking the bus to work was unusual, but not really note-worthy. Granted, he only ever does so when the weather's bad, but still. However, when I saw the sorry state he was in, I almost sent him home. The lad can be a bit clumsy at times, but he's never seriously hurt himself before. When he came in this morning, he was half-purple with bruises, his face was flushed, and the corner of his head was bandaged. And, that's not even mentioning the limp and the fact that every movement seemed to cause him pain. It's telling when even Squidward is concerned about him.

When I asked what happened, there was a flash of panic in SpongeBob's eyes. He's never been good at hiding his emotions. But, he just said, "Oh, well, uh, you know, the storm and everything. The power went out on my street, and I kind of, um, fell down the stairs. Whoopsy-daisy!" The following laugh was obviously fake as he limped into the kitchen.

Squidward and I exchanged looks. While he did confirm the power outage, it was clear that he wasn't buying SpongeBob's story either.

I've been periodically checking on the lad all day, hoping he wouldn't notice me peering through my office door at him. It's honestly pathetic, seeing him try to get through the work day when he should be lying down. He's winced and groaned while making patties. He's fought back tears trying to lift boxes and refused my help when I offered it. He's even looked ready to collapse at certain points, struggling to catch his breath. I even caught him coughing (thankfully, into his elbow and turned away from the food) a few times. Sadly, you can't help someone who refuses to be helped, and Neptune knows I tried more than once to send him home.

I have to give the lad credit. He has more fortitude than some of my old Navy buddies.

At least the customers are being uncharacteristically sympathetic today. Alright, so they started out complaining about how long their food was taking. Then, SpongeBob took a bathroom break, and those complaints stopped once everyone saw his injuries. He can be annoying at times, but he's still very well-liked, even carrying the nickname of "the town sweetheart." Not very creative, but it suits him just fine.

"Now, now, everyone," SpongeBob said, when people started asking if he was okay. "I just fell down the stairs is all. But, don't worry, folks. I won't let a few bumps and bruises affect my job!" But, the moment he reached the privacy of the kitchen, I watched as his legs gave out and he dropped to his knees.

Bumps and bruises, indeed.

He knelt there, motionless, long enough that the call of my paternal instincts was too great to ignore. I stepped out of my office and into the kitchen. "Uh, SpongeBob?" He looked up at me with glazed eyes, a look that I'd come to expect Squidward but that I'd never seen from SpongeBob. "I really don't think you're well enough to work, son. Perhaps, I could call you a cab or something?" Or, an ambulance. Those things aren't cheap, but maybe I could- Would I really have the heart to take it out of his paycheck? I'm sure the lad has insurance anyway, but…

SpongeBob's eyes cleared at my suggestion, and he forced himself to his feet, using the wall for support. "No. No, thank you, Mr. Krabs." Was he wheezing? "I-I'm fine. A little sore, but nothing I can't handle." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Those patties'll be out lickety-split, I promise."

It's not the patties I'm worried about.

That was only ten minutes ago. It's only almost time for the lunch rush. There's no way SpongeBob can survive that, let alone the rest of the work day. Ah, forget it. I'm calling an ambulance. Wait, how would that affect business? I know I wouldn't want to eat here if I saw an ambulance parked up front. And, losing my fry cook of all people?

What am I thinking? I love SpongeBob like he was my own. I wouldn't let my daughter suffer, and won't let SpongeBob suffer either. Regardless of-

All that money down the drain…

Someone slams open my office door, relieving me of my conflicted thoughts.

"Mr. Krabs," Squidward says, fixing me with eyes that could melt steel, "I don't care what you say, I don't care how much money you lose. I am calling 9-1-1, and they are going to send SpongeBob an ambulance, and I don't care who pays for it!"

Is he a mind reader? More importantly, is he the real Squidward Tentacles? Then again, I've always suspected that Squidward likes SpongeBob more than he lets on. Then, I process what he said, and my heart sinks. "Oh, no." I rush to the kitchen-adjacent door and open it, half-expecting SpongeBob to be lying on the floor, unconscious at best. But, the lad's nowhere to be found, and I'm not sure if that's better or worse. I turn back to Squidward. "Where is he?"

"He looked like he was overheating - despite somebody refusing to keep the thermostat above sixty-two degrees - so I told him to go stand in the cooler for a while." It's barely perceptible, but I could swear his gaze softens. "But, before he did, I asked why he didn't just remove all his injured parts and grow back new ones."

"And?" I ask, dreading the answer.

Squidward shrugs helplessly. "He tried. Said he couldn't even pull them off."

As much as I hate to admit it, some things really are more important than money. "Make the call, Mr. Squidward. I'll go talk to him."

Not waiting for a response, I head straight to the cooler and slowly open it, not wanting to startle the lad. When I step inside, my heart sinks further. Instead of standing, SpongeBob is sitting against the back wall, hugging his legs to his chest, his head resting against his knees. I flinch when I hear his loud, raspy coughs, witness his body shake with the force of them. Were they that bad earlier?

Why the Davy didn't he call in sick?

I approach SpongeBob carefully and clear my throat, and he looks up. His normally yellow face is bright red, and he's sweating despite the cold. I'm no doctor, but I am a father; I know what a fever looks like.

His face twists with panic at the sight of me standing over him. He tries to speak but just starts coughing into his knees again. I sigh and sit down next to him. When his fit ends, I put my arm around him and say as gently as possible, "SpongeBob, I admire your determination; I really do. But, you and I both know you shouldn't be here right now. Do you know where you should be, son?"

"Yes, Mr. Krabs. I'm sorry." Just when I think we're on the same page, he rasps, "I'll get back to the grill now."

Seriously? I know the lad's smart. He's just so damn dense sometimes. He starts to stand, but I rest my claw on his too-hot head, mindful of his recently-changed bandages, and push him back down. "No, you little barnacle. The kitchen's the last place you should be. Now, I had Squidward phone you an ambulance, and-"

"Ambulance?" SpongeBob's eyes are more focused than they've been all day. Though seeing how much fear is in them, it's bittersweet. He folds his hands and shakes them in a begging gesture. "Please, Mr. Krabs! I don't wanna go to the hospital! I can work! I swear, I-" Whatever else he's about to say is cut off by another coughing fit, this one worse than the last, ending with him gasping for breath.

"See, boyo, this is what I'm talking about," I say more firmly. "Besides, Squidward told me that you can't regenerate." He freezes. "I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure that's not a good sign." He looks away, but I can tell I'm starting to get through to him. I think over my next move for a moment then decide to chance it. "You didn't fall down the stairs, did you, lad?"

After a long while, he shakes his head, still staring at the floor.

"Would you like to tell me what really happened?"

He shakes his head quicker this time. I don't push the matter.

We sit there silently until a paramedic comes in and calmly asks SpongeBob if he can walk. SpongeBob nods resignedly, and I help him to his feet. I then hand him off to the paramedic, promising SpongeBob that I'll come visit him after closing.

Squidward and I wordlessly watch as two paramedics help him on to a stretcher and roll him out- Oh, why did they have to come through the front door? Why couldn't they have come through the back? Hopefully, the customers will only see SpongeBob's injuries and won't realize they'd been served by a sick fry cook as well as a hurt one.

As the customers gawk and mumble amongst themselves, Squidward asks me, "So, what now? Do we close early?"

I wonder how much of the question is genuine concern and how much is just laziness. "I'll man the grill, Mr. Squidward. You just get back to the register."

Squidward's deadpan, "Of course," all but proves the laziness theory.

We made it through the lunch rush, though most of it was just people asking about SpongeBob. News travels fast in Bikini Bottom, and at this point the rumor mill had him doing everything from getting hit by a boatmobile to having a heart attack. Charging a dollar per question certainly helped my bottom line once I realized some folks only came in to learn whether or not SpongeBob really did get beaten by thugs or get cancer.

I've always hated rumor mills. Now, they've got me wondering.

At this point, the restaurant's empty apart from a few customers (including Old Man Jenkins, who still refuses to do anything but sit there with his radio and slurp his small coffee all day), so I busy myself with tidying the kitchen. I pick up some tomato slices that fell on the floor and wonder if I can still use them-

"Hey, Mr. Krabs,'' Squidward calls from the register. "You better get out here."

Abandoning the tomatoes, which can and will be salvaged, I step into the dining room, expecting Plankton or a particularly obnoxious customer. "What's the trouble, Mr. Squidward?"

Squidward stops rubbing his temples long enough to point to the entrance. "Take a guess."

Through the front windows, I see something I probably should have anticipated. Patrick Star, SpongeBob's best friend and my best and worst customer (either he buys tons of food or he forgets to bring money or he eats out of the garbage or he just loiters), is running down the street, screaming SpongeBob's name. "Get ready, Mr. Squidward," I say when I see the overweight starfish, who is wearing what I can only assume are his pajamas, charging for the doors.

"Can't really prepare for stupidity," Squidward mutters. I glare at him, though he does have a point.

Patrick kicks the doors so hard I'm surprised they're still intact. "SpongeBob?" His frantic eyes look this way and that. "SpongeBob?"

In a way, I feel for him, watching him check under tables and on the ceiling and in the cracks in the floorboards for his pal. I should have known news would reach Patrick. But, when shaking a chair fails to produce his best friend and he throws it across the room, and the remaining customers all run out in a panic, I know I have to say something.

Squidward beats me to it. "SpongeBob's not here, you numbskull!"

Patrick throws the second chair he'd picked up and glares at Squidward. "Oh, you must think I'm pretty dumb."

"Yes!"

Patrick storms up to us, fists clenched, brown eyes hostile. "I know SpongeBob's here. Where else would he have gone?"

His aggressiveness has me thinking. I can't help but wonder. "Patrick," I say, leaning in and fixing him with a hard glare of my own, "do you know what happened to SpongeBob?"

His face changes but not in the guilty way I expected. All the anger leaves his body like that and is replaced with something like shyness or maybe worry. "Uh, I'm not allowed to tell. It's supposed to stay between us. I was gonna force him to stay home, but I kind of had a late night." Suddenly, he seems near tears. "I just woke up, and-and he wasn't there!"

Some of the tension leaves my body. I'm glad to hear that SpongeBob confided in someone. Even if that someone is as intelligent as a pile of bricks. Moreover, it sounds like my suspicions might have just been disproven. Patrick may be the dumbest person I've ever met, but he's always struck me as a fine, friendly fellow. I should have known he'd never hurt his own best friend.

Unless I'm reading him wrong. For SpongeBob's sake, I sincerely hope I'm not. Though my gut is telling me Patrick's innocent.

"Squidward's right, Patrick," I say. "I'm afraid your pal wasn't doing so good, so-"

Patrick grabs my shoulders, a crazed look returning to his face. "Where is he?" He shakes me vigorously. "Where is SpongeBob?"

I shove him and blink away my disorientation. What Patrick lacks in brains, he makes up for in brute strength. "As I was trying to say, he's at the hospital-"

"SPOOOOOOONGEBOOOOOOOOOOOB!"

And, he runs out as quickly as he came, probably bellowing SpongeBob's name the whole way to the hospital.

"I never thought I'd say this," Squidward says, "but good luck to SpongeBob."

All worries of the poor lad being alone in a hospital full of strangers were quickly alleviated. Besides Patrick (hopefully) finding his way there, my daughter, Pearl called the Krusty Krab after school let out and told me her boyfriend was driving her down to see SpongeBob. She asked me why I hadn't called her right away and then answered her own question; she's not allowed to use her phone during school hours.

Like all teenagers, Pearl can be moody and stubborn, but she truly does care about SpongeBob. She'd never say it aloud, but I can tell she considers him a part of the Krabs family as much as I do. In a different way, obviously. The lad's old enough to be her father, after all. Well, that might be pushing it, but I suppose it could still happen.

Heh. Sometimes I forget that he only acts like a child.

It turns out that Pearl, Patrick, and I weren't SpongeBob's only visitors that day. I didn't even have to say anything to the receptionist. She just looked up from her computer and asked if I was "another friend of Mr. SquarePants."

The door to room 131 is wide open, giving me a full view of SpongeBob. I was expecting to see him half-dead, hooked up all sorts of machinery, and I'm utterly relieved to see that's not the case. Instead, there's only one IV tube stuck in his arm, and it looks like his bandages were changed as well. His bed is propped up, and he's curled up under the covers, reading some book called Coral in the Attic. Never heard of it, but SpongeBob is so engrossed in it that he barely reacts when I knock on the door.

I knock harder, and he snaps back to reality. He turns his head and smiles at me, marking his place with an anemone-shaped bookmark and setting the book on his lap. "Oh, Mr. Krabs! I wasn't expecting you until after closing! Is it after closing? How long have I been reading?" He looks up at the clock on the wall and chuckles upon seeing the time. "Ah, there's just nothing like getting lost in the world of fiction," he adds, patting his book fondly.

He may be lacking his unrivaled enthusiasm, but he definitely seems more like his old self. I smile, pull one of the guest chairs closer to him, and sit down. "How are you holding up, son? You certainly look better."

SpongeBob shrugs. "My chest hurts a little, but the doctors gave me a bunch of medicine, so I could be worse." He holds up his book and nods to the three others sitting on the nightstand. "I had Patrick bring me the whole series since I wasn't sure how long I'd be here."

"Pretty good series, eh?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm hooked! It's really different from the stuff I usually read, though." He looks around then leans in and lowers his voice, like he's going to tell me some great secret. "It has incest. And, child abuse." He leans in even closer. "So. Much. Child abuse." He rights himself and nods in the solemn, wide-eyed manner of a little boy who just told you where babies come from.

I force down my laughter. SpongeBob is the only guy I know who can be both a grown man and a small child at the same time. "So, what exactly is going on with you, boyo?"

SpongeBob's demeanor shifts, but it's so brief I can't help wondering if I imagined it. "Well, when I hit my head, it kind of jolted something in my brain. I don't know all the doctor terms, but it sounds like I'll be okay once I'm all healed up." He puffs out his chest. "We sponges are pretty durable."

I relax a little. It sounds like it isn't anything serious. "What about you being sick, lad? You catch something nasty?"

His smile seems a little more forced at my question. He wrings his hands. "Pneumonia, apparently. It's not real bad, but they want to keep me here for a few days. You know, just in case." He frowns. "When I'm released, they said I should take it easy. It doesn't sound like I'll be back to work any time soon."

Only he would worry about work at a time like this. "Oh, put it out of your head, me boy. You ain't coming back until you're well enough to flip patties like there's no tomorrow. Understand?"

He grins and gives me a hearty salute. "Sir, yes, sir!"

I laugh, delighted to see him returning to his old, goofball self. I almost hate to ask my next question. "So, how exactly did you catch pneumonia, of all things?"

That's all it takes for his joyous demeanor to melt away. He doesn't meet my eyes. "Uh… It was cold and rainy yesterday. Really cold and rainy. And, I fell down the stairs-"

Sticking to that story, huh? "You didn't say you fell down the stairs outside."

"Well, uh, I-I did! I did that, and there-there was… It was cold! And, rainy! Did I say that?"

"Okay, me boy." I rest my claw on his shoulder. "I know you don't like to worry people, but I also know that you're a terrible liar." He turns away, content to stare at the wall across from him. "You don't have to give me all the details. I just want to make sure this won't be a recurring problem. You know I think of you as family."

His lip quivers, all false bravado gone. He says in the smallest voice I've ever heard from him, "Please, don't let this get out."

Poor lad. I raise my right claw. "I'll make you a sailor's promise, SpongeBob, that nothing you say to me will leave this room."

He nods, still not looking at me. "C-could you please close the door?"

I do so then return to my seat. "Now, tell me what you need to tell me."

He lets out a shaky sigh and starts absent-mindedly playing with his blanket. "There's this guy I know. We weren't very close as kids, but the past year, we've been seeing a lot of each other. I love him and he's never said it back but I think he feels it too, you know?"

"Go on," I say when he doesn't continue. If he has an abusive lover, I'd like to know.

He lets go of his now bunched up and wrinkled blanket. "The day of the storm, we were looking at homes and apartments." Homes? Apartments? Was SpongeBob going to move in with this guy? "I didn't plan to be out when the storm hit. It...just kind of happened."

He stops then, biting his lip and squeezing his eyes shut. Definitely an abusive relationship. I never thought SpongeBob would be sucked into that situation. Actually, I never pictured him dating at all. "This fellow of yours…" I trail off, unsure if I should finish. But, I need to know. I point to his injury. "He did that, didn't he?"

"He loves me!" SpongeBob blurts out. "I know he does!" He turns away again and starts playing with his blanket some more. "He just has a temper, that's all. And, anway, it's my own fault. I'm the one who started the argument-"

"Let me stop you there," I say before SpongeBob can give himself a panic attack. "Look at me." He doesn't move. I say it more forcefully, and he swallows and turns his head, not quite meeting my gaze. "SpongeBob, you've got a heart as big as the ocean. It's both your best quality and your worst."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that you're too darn trusting. I want to be happy that you got yourself a lover, but-"

Out of nowhere, SpongeBob starts laughing! More than laughing, he's cackling up a storm, kicking his feet until his book falls to the ground, his thin blue gown is riding up, and his blanket is on the other side of his bed. Not noticing or perhaps ignoring my shock, he grabs my claw in both hands and shakes it. "Thanks, Mr. Krabs! I really needed that laugh!" He keeps laughing until he starts coughing, and I'm left wondering just how wrongly I'd interpreted his story.

"You don't have a boyfriend, do you, SpongeBob?" I ask once he catches his breath.

He giggles and pulls his gown back over his legs. "No, silly! I'm talking about my cousin. Oh, Mr. Krabs, you know I'm asexual."

I thought that just meant he could reproduce by budding. Maybe I should brush up on all those LQB-whatever terms. In my day, you were either straight or gay. Now, they've got all these fancy new titles-

"My cousin is...moving," SpongeBob continues, sobering up considerably. "I was helping him, and…" He shrugs. "I guess I made him a little mad."

Well, I did say he didn't have to share all the details. A few more would be nice, but at least there's something here to work with. I'm glad he doesn't have an abusive boyfriend, though I'm not sure an abusive family member is any better. "That ain't an excuse for hurting you, lad."

He stares sadly down at his hand, wiggling his ring finger a little. Come to think of it, I usually see a ring on that finger. Not during work hours - I don't allow jewelry that can get caught in something or fall in the food and cause a lawsuit - but I'll occasionally see him put a ring in his pocket before work and put it back on after. He's worn it outside of work, too. It's the only piece of jewelry I've ever seen him wear, so it must mean something to him. I wonder if it's hidden away wherever his clothes are. He obviously misses it.

One problem at a time, Eugene. I rest my claw on his back. "SpongeBob, I'm going to say something you're really not going to want to hear. Okay?" He nods, still staring at his naked finger. "It doesn't matter if it's romantic or platonic. Anyone who would willingly hurt you, especially this kind of damage, does not love you. I don't care what you said or did. If your cousin cared at all about you, he wouldn't have done this to you. And, if he thinks he does and still did this, then he's not someone you should love."

It's as if I'd just told him his snail died. He sucks in a hard breath between his gapped teeth. His eyes tear up and blink rapidly. He grips sides of the bed so tight his arms are shaking. He isn't crying, but he's on the verge. I hate to upset him like this, but he'll figure it out eventually. It's better that he hears it from someone who really does care about him.

I can barely hear him when he says, "He's family, Eugene."

He never uses my first name. "I know, son."

"I can't just stop loving him."

"I know that, too. But, sometimes you have let people go, even if it's hard."

SpongeBob nods, brushing away a few tears that escaped. He sits back and takes a shaky breath. "I think I need to be alone, Eugene."

"Alright." I bend over, pick up his book, and set it on top of his other books. "I'll leave you be. But, think about what I said, okay?"

I stand up, but SpongeBob grabs my claw at the last minute. He sniffs and wipes his eyes on his arm. "BlackJack. It's BlackJack."

After a moment, I realize what he's saying. I've heard of BlackJack. The man's got a criminal record a mile long. I never would have guessed that someone as sweet and innocent as SpongeBob would be related to him. Although, the way SpongeBob's looking up at me with anxious, tearful eyes makes me wonder just how innocent he really is.

"One more piece of advice before I go, son," I say with what I hope is a comforting smile. "Never let yourself be defined by who your family is. You're a good man, and having BlackJack for a cousin doesn't change that."

"Thank you," he sobs.

I'm reluctant to leave him in this state, but this is something he needs to sort out himself. I will be returning after work tomorrow, though. With any luck, he'll have come to a decision about his cousin by then. Only time will tell.