Someone in my work world, someone I don't know a bit, is making life difficult.

Puts me of a mind of my uncle Archer. Archer Pleadwell. Archer, dead now, meant no harm even at his most vital; but during World War II, while stationed in Guam, the Irish boys in his company treated him like dirt, wouldn't have a thing to do with him. I imagine Archer, twisting one way then the other in front of a mirror, trying to see what they saw.

Months passed before one of the lads let slip that the first English tax collector in Ireland, some 200 years prior, was a deeply reviled man named Pleadwell (Plaidwell, he called him). Sins of the father.