A green DYFS Plymouth Valiant parked in front of your current foster home was rarely a good thing. It usually meant a new foster child coming into the system, and all the emotional turmoil that entailed, or one of your foster brothers or sisters, whom you had bonded with, was being moved to a new home and you would likely never hear from them again. Sometimes it was visit to get a dressing-down from the social worker for bad grades or some sort of misbehaviour. And once it was to tell a 10 year old with no other family that her mother had OD’ed on some bad heroin.
Regardless, I quickly learned to despise the sight of a green Plymouth Valiant.
My last ride in one was shortly before my 18th birthday, when my case worker drove me to a county job fair. I was essentially given the choice of working for the sanitation department, the highway department or the school district, all for minimum wage and some basic benefits. There was also an Army recruiter on hand, but I did my best to avoid him since Ronnie Raygun was likely to be our next president and I had no desire to die in the Iranian desert.
Afterwards, the case worker, who was probably my sixth or seventh in five years, bought me lunch at the local Dairy Queen knock-off (a real treat, actually.) She helpfully suggested I start looking for a job in the private sector and to avoid anyone who might be a ‘bad influence.’
A few days later, she came to the house to show me how to fill out a job application and how conduct myself for a job interview.
The morning of my 18th birthday, I had two duffle bags packed with my belongings sitting on the back porch. My foster mother had made me a breakfast of pancakes and bacon and had packed me a bag with a full lunch. I heard the green Valiant pull into the driveway at 9am sharp. The social worker had me and my foster parents sign a bunch of paperwork, I was given the usual lecture to stay away from drugs, and was handed a state check for $65.38, which I assume was some sort of allowance given to kids aging out of the system.
A hug from each of my foster parents and my foster siblings, a handshake from the social worker and suddenly I was an adult let loose upon the world.
The social worker offered me a ride to where ever I wanted; I declined one final ride in the green Valiant and walked the three blocks to the New Jersey Transit bus stop and the GM Fishbowl that would deliver me less than a mile away from my cousin’s house who had agreed to let me crash in his spare bedroom for $75.00/month.
I would occasionally see a NJ state-owned green Valiant on the road from time to time, and the same chill would go down my spine every time. And the foul stench of the interior of one of these cars is one I can still recall nearly 50 years later.