Good Old Mister Murphy

I was born and raised in the suburbs of Baltimore Maryland. My parents were hill people from West Virginia who had come east during World War II to find jobs. They were hired on at Glen L. Martin Aircraft which was later to become Martin-Marietta Corp. I grew up in a single home with about half an acre of land on a white oak lined avenue not far from a grade school. Next door to us lived a somewhat unconventional family (for the times), as they weren't a typical two parents with children scenario. No, there was my friend Tommy, his mother, her friend Mr. Knight, and an older gentleman Mr. Murphy. Well, Mr. Murphy would walk one mile each morning to Loch Raven Boulevard where the bus line ran leading in and out of the city. He would take the bus each day to his factory job downtown and then return late each afternoon or evening. As he returned each night from work, whenever he would come upon one of we children in the neighborhood, he would offer us a stick of chewing gum. Usually juicyfruit or doublemint gum. As his figure would appear up our street, someone would always remark "Here comes good old Mister Murphy." We all were very fond of Mister Murphy as he was so generous and kind to us all.
As my parents were from West Virginia, once or twice a year we would travel there for a visit (1950's, early 60's). Once away from Baltimore proper, our journey would mostly take place on winding two lane highways through valleys, up and then down mountains and so on. There were no fast food restaurants and our meals consisted of sandwiches of peanut butter and jelly, or bologna or cheese or somesuch fare either enjoyed in the car or at a roadside picnic table or fountain area of sort. Our bathroom breaks were either at places like this or at gas stations. On one such trip back to Baltimore when I was around age eight, we made a fuel stop at an Esso service station and I went and used their restroom. While inside, I discovered a package of what looked like, I don't know what, in the bottom slot of some kind of dispenser machine. Well, I put the package in my pocket and never mentioned it to anyone. We made our journey home and sometime later (I have no idea what day or when) as I sat on my front porchsteps I opened the package and discovered that they were balloons. So, I began blowing them up and tieing knots in them. As I was enjoying this, along came "good old Mr. Murphy". He told me that my balloons were dirty and that I should throw them into the street. He said that they were bad, dirty, get rid of them. I was puzzled. Huh? But, you know what I did? I threw them into the street. I didn't know why. I just did.