Now I'm the jerk

A couple weeks ago a tow truck backed into my parked car on the street in front of my apartment building damaging the hood and bumper. The driver didn't report the incident to the police, but did leave a note with his name and phone number which I was lucky enough to discover a couple days later tucked under the windshield wiper. I called him up and he promised to reimburse me for the repairs as long as he didn't have to report the accident to his insurance company. Although he balked when I suggested I might take it to the dealer, I figured things were still on the up-and-up. On Saturday I got a written estimate from a body shop and called to give him the bad news: $1,700. I left a message and he didn't return my call. I called again on Sunday and left another message with a little more irritation in my voice since he hadn't returned my call from the day before. Again, he didn't return my call. By last night, I was steamed. Is this motherfucker ducking me? Am I going to have to show up on this guy's stoop with a baseball bat (I have a vivid imagination and like to indulge it by imagining myself clobbering people I don't like with a blunt instrument)? I was just hitting my stride in another clearly annoyed harangue when someone picked up the phone to interrupt my message. It was the truck driver's brother, Pat. Gary, the guy who hit my car, was in the hospital with "heart problems." Jesus, is anything easy in this life? Why is it always one fucking thing after another? I calmed down and let him know that I was sorry to hear that. And the fact is I was. I'm always sorry to hear about another guy getting worked over by life because we're all in the thick of it. He's in the shit today, but without fail, I know, I'll be in it tomorrow. Pat told me he would pass on my message to Gary's wife who was still at the hospital (Pat had just stopped by to feed the dog--of course!). As I hung up the phone, I knew the tables had turned: now I was the dick! And sure enough when Gary's son called (I was getting to know the whole family!), I could tell by the tone of his voice that he wanted to be rid of me as fast as possible (he didn't want to make the check out to me, preferring to make it out directly to the body shop). I really had to hand it to Gary. Not only did he fuck up my car, he also managed to lay a massive guilt trip on me. And if he croaks I'll be forever memorialized as the asshole who harassed him while he was on his deathbed. Hey, it's better than not being remembered at all, right?