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t r a n s m i s s i o n

t r a n s m i s s i o n

/tranzˈmiSHən/

noun

the mechanism by which power is transmitted from an engine to the wheels of a motor vehicle

[X]

My agent is a bag of jokes.

An absolute chuckle factory.

The funniest fuckin' guy in the whole ass universe.

Ha ha ha.

He likes scheduling "impromptu" press conferences because in the past I've been known to slip away from wild cameras and eager microphones if given enough warning. Brock used to say the only high publicity event I didn't shy away from was our meticulously planned wedding (which I didn't even have a hand in.)

E'nilu is, quite frankly, sick of it.

"You're on and live in twenty, Mel." E'nilu springs this on me as I coast around the oval race track, giggling into his headset on the sidelines, just positively tickled. "We got makeup and hair ready in the locker room. Get glammed up real nice, cause the stations are ready to pick you apart. You know how they do when you're not in the spotlight for a few months."

My gloved hands tighten on the steering wheel.

"I thought we agreed no more publicity until just before the race."

E'nilu snorts and the microphone crackles with static.

"Who's the award-winning agent here, Mel? Cause I thought it was me. Who was it that helped Senator Troy Richmond survive his Banana-Up-The-Butt PR fallout? Me! It was me. So clearly I'm the more experienced of the two when it comes to this sort of schtick. You do this right and you won't have to suffer through another one of these fiascos again. Or, at least until the California 500."

I contemplate crashing my race car into the sidewall at top speed like I imagined, but there's no escaping this media bomb. I always wondered why E'nilu never entered federal politics; he could probably run for president on a whim and win with his hands tied behind his back. If he wanted. If he desired. But E'nilu has a funny way of not seeking out anything but what's immediately in front of his nose, which is why I hired him in the first place.

"The other big boys in the league are scared of you, Mel. They want to know you better. Learn your tricks and secrets. This is your chance to really buckle down and make them piss their pants. Everyone thinks you'll win the cup. You have a shot. You do. And once you put your mind to something, it's ballgame. I promise you, Mel."

He's right.

I mean, I did hire a deep-web hitman to take me out in a night of drunken self-pity and resolve.

"I love you and I hate you," I tell him. I can already see his square, plaid-covered shoulders quirk up with pleasure.

"That's what I love to hear from my clients," he says. "It means it's working. And I love you too, you jellybean."

I submit to the higher powers that be, and I'm clean, painted, sprayed, and tousled to perfection by E'nilu's crack team of beauty wizards.

Brock always liked me better this way.

Not so grimy. Not so rough.

After I take the stage, my agent opens the floor for questions and suddenly it's open season.

Everyone wants a shot at the big-rack buck.

"Mrs. Enderby," a representative from ESPN takes the lead with a shit-eating grin. "You've broken glass ceilings for women and minorities everywhere. Do you believe NASCAR is making positive strides in terms of meaningful diversity?"