“What famous person have you met?” was the question that someone posted on FB.

I began to think.

What do you mean by “famous,” by “met”?

Famous means one thing to me and something else to others. I would find, for instance, that Prudence Mapstone, a crochet design maven, would be a famous person. I would not consider Patrick Reed famous. I had to look him up. He was last year’s winner of the Masters Golf Tournament. My spouse would disagree. So, you see that famous is a subjective thing.

And, what does “met” mean? Does it mean that you were introduced? Tripped over someone’s feet, admired from afar, were treated by the same doctor, went to the same school at the same time?

If it was the last option, I can say that I met Joyce Carol Oates, a famously renowned author of 58 books.

Joyce went to Syracuse University and so did I. She graduated in 1959. I graduate in 1962, so we were at SU together for one year. Does that count?

If it does or doesn’t, it says something about my read of her latest novel, “The Hazards of Time Travel.”

“The Hazards of Time Travel,” written in 2016, is a political satire.

The year 1959 and the fictitious but readily recognizable Wainscotia University is the setting for most of its action. The heroine or protagonist is a teen age girl who may or may not have been transported to 1959 from a dystopian version of what will be the United States in 2049.

The 1959 in “The Hazards of Time Travel” was the 1959 that I experienced. The people, the clothing, the student residence, so much of my college days were in her words.

Her description of her 1959 roommates, even the room in which they lived was so vividly real that I knew that place and those girls.

My own impecunious existence came rushing back with her description of the heroine’s lack of resources. The solace of books and learning, heady wine.

The library, the museum, house “mothers” and awful frat parties are remnants of my own memories of my undergraduate years.

The culture and politics of Oates’ 2049 are eerily prescient.

The President is a billionaire, elected by other billionaires, (not a direct quote.)

In both eras, mediocrity and subservience are strategies for survival. Smart people and people who question the status quo are dangerous.

Whether Oates’ evaluation of society and politics of 2019 and 2049 is on point is mediated by one’s politics and knowledge of the Constitution. Yes, the Constitution! Her characters and plot are chillingly real even if you are aware of the science fiction bent of the work. Here lies the art of the writer.

What is real and what is fiction in the world of “The Hazards of Time Travel”?

But, I must interject something of my own since Joyce’s tale is obviously drawing on her long ago memories at SU.

The reader may come to the conclusion that the stifling 1959 culture described in the novel rings true. While there were times that I thought some of the courses that I took were not worth the scholarship money that paid for them, I wouldn’t categorize my education as mediocre. Far from it. The greats, Michael Sawyer, Don Hart, Donald Meinig, Marguerite Fischer, David Owen, even an intimidating graduate student named Carl Vann and more were superb teachers.

Some of the names of my professors have faded but what I learned remains. Well, most of it. There is always neurological decline…or, if we are in Oates’ 1959 or 2049…is it really neurological decline?

“The Hazards of Time Travel” is a puzzle.

Without revealing the sometimes-unnerving intrigue, the characters and the plot may be switchable mirror images of themselves, open to interpretation, which according to Oates would have been in 2049, punishable by…well, to tell you that would divulge more than is reasonable if you want to enjoy the options that the novel affords. What is true? What is contrived? Electronically and psychologically created? Who is really telling the story?

So, no I wouldn’t say that I actually met Joyce Carol Oates, but she and I spent lives that were parallel for a brief period of time.

I’ll bet we both wore similar clothing if only the ubiquitous saddle shoes and, sorority pins from less than elegant sororities, developed strong calf muscles walking the hills at SU, loved being in the great old Carnegie Library that she describes with its stacks and study carrels. Descriptively we met if only by sharing common experiences. How we interpreted those as time passed, separates as well as links our lives.

In Joyce’s case it has created an entertaining and thought-provoking novel. In mine, an 800 word column.