"What was that?" I asked, snapped out of my thoughts.

She turned around and said, "Around the corner and down the hall. Go through the revolving doors. You can't miss it."

"Um. Thanks," I said.

My heart pounded. I felt dizzy. Was the CVO's office really around the corner? This was the first floor. Was the 13th floor office a CVO joke? If there really was a CVO, and not some bogus entry in the database, could he really break the Corporate Curse? I was nervous and excited to possibly find and meet Mr. Silverman at last.

I snapped my notebook shut, stood up, and announced, "That's about all I can do here. I'll go back to my desk and see what I can come up with. I'll let you know what I find. See ya!" Deep into a response to her email, she failed to notice my immediate departure, but she waved a lame goodbye.

Katie's directions were half right. I walked around the corner and down the hall... And, around another corner and through an open area of high-walled cubes. On the other side of the cubes was the revolving door. The door made "fwip-fwip-fwip" noises as it spun around its axis. Two plaques hung on the wall beside the revolving door. One read, "Sigmund Silverman, CVO." The other, "Patent offices of Baker, Baker, Dozen, & Friday."

"You've got to be kidding. 13th floor. Baker's dozen. Friday the 13th. This must be a joke," I thought.

I entered the revolving doors and was spit out on the other side. I felt like I had walked into a lobby of another building instead of the outer office of the CVO. The receptionist's desk was on the other side of the revolving door. To my right, a fluorescent light flickered at the end of another stretch of hallway. Each door proudly wore plaques as name tags centered on their wooden chests.

"Yes, sir. Do you have an appointment with Mr. Silverman?" the receptionist smiled. She tapped a pencil eraser on her desktop calendar to hint there were no scheduled appointments.

"No ma'am," I said. "I work upstairs. I happened to be in the area and thought I could stop by to ask him a quick question."

The receptionist stared at me through thick, round glasses. They made her eyes look large and paranoid, like she never blinked in her fifty-odd years of life. Her big eyes made me more nervous talking with her, than the thought of talking to Mr. Silverman.

"Mr. Silverman is very busy, but I'll ask him if he can spare a moment."

"Thanks, uh, Alice," I said as I read her nameplate.

"Your name?"

"Charles Morris."

"Charles Norris? Like, Chuck Norris? Do you know karate?"

"No, it's Mmmmorris with an M. M as in Marshmallow," I said. It always annoyed me when people confused my name with Chuck Norris.

"Marshmallows? Oo, can't stand those little things," she said to me, then to the intercom, "Mr. Silverman? There's a Mr. Charles Morris here to see you."

"Does he know karate?" a voice said from her speakerphone.

"No, sir. Apparently, not."

"Too bad. Does he want me to teach him?"

I shook my head and mouthed that my name was Morris with an M.

"I don't think so, sir. But, he does want you to know he spells his name with an M, as in mnemonic."

"With a silent M, eh? Interesting. Send him in," Mr. Silverman said over the speakerphone.

"Mr. Silverman will see you now," Alice said.

"Thanks," I told her and walked through the door beyond her desk.

Mr. Silverman's office was lit by natural light from the three walls of windows. Something odd tugged at the sleeve of my brain, then I realized it was the view out the windows. The view was as it should be seen from a thirteenth floor. It was impossible. I could make out the roof of our building about a half dozen, non-existent, empty-spaced floors below. My mind continued to fight what it saw. Acrophobia turned my stomach at the abnormal height above our building below. Was a cure for my curse worth this insanity?

I forced myself not to think about what was out the window, and focused on Mr. Silverman and his desk. Mr. Silverman's back was turned to me. "Be with you in a moment," he said from the other side of his chair.

Mr. Silverman saved his document, swiveled his chair around and stood up. Ninety percent of him gave me the impression he was a young businessman in sales or marketing. The other 10 percent, the part with blond dreadlocks, warned me he was a flaky hippie.

I stuck out my hand for him to shake. Instead of shaking my hand, he stuck his hands in his pockets, walked around to the front side of his desk and sat on the edge.

"What can I do for you, Chuck?" he asked me.

I lowered my hand to my side.

"Did you get my messages? I left a couple of messages on email and voice mail."

"Having trouble with my email, and I don't trust voice mail. What can I do for you?"

"You're the CVO, right?"

"Yes."

"Chief Voodoo Officer?"

"That's me. Doctor Mojo. Is that all you want to know?"

"Um. No," I said. "Actually, I need some help."

"That's why I'm here," he said, pulled his hands from his pockets and folded his arms across his chest.

I just met this quirky businessman and was about to tell him I thought I was cursed. The potential for embarrassment was too much.

I laughed nervously, and said, "Well. You see. It's funny. I think I have a curse that destroys companies I work for."

The words came out too easily around the foot in my mouth. He lifted a loose fist up and tapped his thumbnail against his bottom lip.

"Curses are never funny. Tell me why you think you're cursed."

Again, I outlined my whole work history. Unlike some of the other upper management, I could tell he listened to every word I said. It even seemed he listened to the words between the words.

"Interesting. I never would have guessed. I never even saw it in your résumé."

"What? Saw what?"