I’ve soaked through my red shirt with sweat, punished my legs with miles of lost walking and let’s not even go into the slightly crazed mental state. And then I hear “Hey man, you in the bookbag,” from a third floor balcony I pass.

Oh, it’s on, brother man, it is most definitely on.

Your catcall may just be a harmless little party stunt, a stupid effort to impress that girl in the black dress you “rule.” But didn’t your mother teach you anything? Don’t talk to strangers — especially those strangers wandering the weird, wild and wooly weekend streets of Champaign.

Because you just don’t know what they’ve been through.

After passing the apartment complex with a weary smile and clenched teeth, I take inventory of the evening: Five points, 20 minutes, three miles and one towed 1990 Plymouth Voyager minivan with 220,000 miles on it.

The weekend certainly started normally enough, but that’s the way these stories always are told. Fiction writers say it connects the reader with the events and makes things believable. Maybe things never were normal, just slightly hidden.

Five points separated the beloved Huskies and the only team that has a booed mascot, the Fighting Illini of the University of Illinois. Good game, if a stalemate. All those years cheering on the orange and blue conflict with my current university. So both the victory and the defeat were bittersweet. Hey, at least it warranted a road trip and a visit to a brother that will be mentioned later.

After the game, I head to a local establishment to eat a little fast food. “This is a pretty happening campus,” I say to myself as I pass by Greek Row and the university buildings. Good things turn sour when I wait 20 minutes for a simple burger, fries and pop. Those same fiction writers call that foreshadowing.

The brother comes home from Blockbuster, and shows me the finer points in weekend fraternity dining. Hey, he eats Ramen noodles too. Maybe a bridge has been crossed.

Before I can ponder the significance of that, I am off to my permanent residence, after many tears are shed. Well, they would have been, if the brother was not trying to impress a date. I understand.

I don’t understand the next three hours of my life. Parking police are tough all over, because my gray minivan chariot has been taken by an unnamed tow truck driver. This is weird, because I don’t even lock the doors to the vehicle. If someone really wanted such junk, I would feel sorry enough to give it to them.

The rest blurs along the edges with a little shade of disbelief. I sneak into the nearest residence hall to find a phone number, and receive no reply. I call my mother, because I don’t feel bad enough about the situation, and hang up.

Man.

I made mother proud, though. I glance down at my too-large sandals, hitch up my khakis and wander for three miles in a general direction before finally arriving at the towing company. I overlook the drunken bellower, then realize I probably should be made fun of for thinking the word “bellower.”

Two hours later, my minivan takes me home. “What a story,” I whisper to myself, before waking up my mother and lovely beagle and letting them know the minivan didn’t break down … this time.

Some might say this sordid tale of bloodless Tarantino nonsense doesn’t have a whole lot of substance. The fiction writers, my Greek chorus, cry out for more rising action and a better payoff.

But I say this: It took until my senior year to finally accept being at NIU and not the large fish in Champaign-Urbana’s large pond — if for no other reason than I wouldn’t survive a week down there … at this rate.