How to Archer
Authors: Sterling Archer
for Shedley
Section Six: How to Pay for It
Appendix C: Archer’s World Factbook
When HarperCollins first approached me to write the foreword to Sterling’s little book, I must admit that I was more than a bit taken aback. Not quite aghast, but definitely shocked, For one thing, Sterling has never been much of a reader. In fact, to the best of my knowledge, the only things he ever read growing up were pornographic comic books (we used to call them “Tijuana bibles,” but I’m sure that’s no longer considered polite, what with all these immigrants driving around everywhere in their lowriders, listening to raps and shooting all the jobs). So the thought of Sterling writing an actual book? With words? Yes, I was definitely shocked.
I was also surprised to learn that HarperCollins wanted a “how-to” book for spies and didn’t ask
me
to write it. Needless to say, I have far more experience in all areas of espionage than Sterling will ever have. I also think I could have brought a great deal of profound wisdom and unique insight to such a book, due to my being not only a single mother, but also—and more importantly—an incredibly successful woman in a field almost entirely dominated by men. It probably would have been an inspiration to little girls and young women all over the world.
Instead, I just assume you’ll be getting crudely drawn maps to every whorehouse on the planet, accompanied by a step-by-step guide about how to rid oneself of pubic lice. Which is all just as well, as far as I’m concerned: I am currently penning my memoirs—
Secrets and Silk: The Malory Archer Story
—and don’t wish to water down the brand.
New York, New York
My life has basically been one amazing story after another, So when HarperCollins begged me to write a book for them, I naturally assumed they meant a memoir. Something along the lines of John Huston’s
An Open Book.
Or some other book. And since the publishing business has been circling the drain for a while now, it made sense to me that HarperCollins would be eager to publish a book that would sell literally tons of copies, Also, to be frank, I’ve been living well above my means for pretty much my entire adult life, which made the thought of millions upon millions of dollars in book royalties more than a little appealing to me.
And so I agreed to take a lunch meeting, to which I brought a rough outline (hastily scribbled on a sheaf of cocktail napkins) of my thrilling life. The two editors from HarperCollins, turns out, were actually editrices.
1
This being the publishing world, neither was what you’d call “mildly attractive.” One was pretty mousy, the other sort of squat and boxy and mannish, almost like a young Gertrude Stein. But not nearly as—well yeah, about that ugly.
Fast-forward five martinis.
2
Somewhere between martinis three and five, apparently, I said something that made Gertrude Junior storm out of the restaurant. Or I repeatedly made elephant noises every single time she tried to talk. It’s all pretty hazy. Anyway, I thought the book deal was dead on arrival. Right up until the mousy one—utterly disarmed by a combination of white Zinfandel and Archer pheromones—put her hand on my knee and asked if we could continue the meeting at my place.
I’m (at least) seven martinis to the good at this point, I’m also thinking about John Huston, and about how—even though he was a ninety-year-old Mexican hermit when he wrote his memoirs—he probably got laid a bunch of extra times when they were published (which, by that point in his life, was just padding his stats). And so I pour the boozy little editrix into a cab and take her back to my place, thinking I’ll cement the book deal by doing a little stat-padding of my own. But was I in for a surprise once I got her into the bedroom. Because you know how in the movies, when the mousy librarian type takes off her glasses and shakes down her hair, and it turns out that all this time she was ridiculously smoking hot?
This was not that. At
all.
But by this point I really want HarperCollins to publish my memoirs. And since this pale, timid, and also somewhat (it’s hard to even say this) nether-regionally-unkempt woman seemed to be the only means to that end, I bit the bullet and gave her the same mind-blowing Archer experience that I’ve spent a lifetime sharing with beautiful and exotic women the world over.
3
Twice I thought she’d died. This was not the surprising part.
The surprise came later, after I had signed the contract and lay in bed (and she staggered around looking for her clothes and just generally not leaving), when I made an offhand joke:
“Don’t worry, um … gorgeous. I won’t put this in my memoirs.”
And she hops around to face me—she was hopping around, trying to get her panty hose on, not realizing that why would any self-respecting woman wear
panty hose?
—and she goes:
“Memoirs? No, we want a
how-to
book. For spies.”
“A how-to book?! A book can’t teach someone
how to
be equal parts deadly and sexy! That’s like asking a cobra to write a book about
how to
be a cobra!”
“Well, I’m sorry, but a how-to book is what you just signed a contract to write.”
I pause, thinking about my options. And about money. And John Huston. And cobras.
“Could it have a chapter
about
cobras?”
“Um … sure. So listen, I’ve gotta run but … will you call me sometime?”
“Um … sure.”
And so a how-to book it is. Whatever. But I can tell you right now it’s nowhere near as exciting as my memoirs would have been. Especially since HarperCollins totally fucked me on the entire chapter about cobras. But if you like this book but also want to read a much
better
book, you should convince HarperCollins they should publish my memoirs. Maybe start some sort of petition, or a letter-writing campaign. Or, better yet, maybe give that mousy editrix a call.