Sirs:
Howdy. Very kind of you to inquire. I love the seat covers! If I’ve been slow to respond, it’s because I had them for a while before I put them on. My car was very dirty on the inside (looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned since it came off the line in 1985). On Saturday, August 26, I had my car detailed — one of those takes-all-day-and-costs-a-lot-but-oh-so-worth-it detailings. I picked up my totally gorgeous, clean, 1985 diesel Mercedes (with only 143,000 miles on it) home and slipped on my totally gorgeous, custom-made seat covers. (“Slipped” makes it sound a whole lot easier than it was, but what the hell.)
They fit perfectly (although I was wrong when I told — you? Was it you I spoke with? — that the mid-console armrest connects from the center. In fact, it connects at the driver’s seat, but I just sliced the seat cover up from the bottom; my improvisation — necessitated entirely by my own stupidity — was pretty well hidden). I had wondered if the fuzzy synthetic fabric I thought I had ordered would look cheap, but, as I knew when I had opened your box, they surpassed even my fondest hopes for them. And now the car was clean, and the front seats were covered in a swath of velvety deep blue . I thought many kind thoughts about you, and told many people about my fine seat covers, some of whom will, I hope, be getting in touch with you for seat covers of their own.
I drove home that Friday after work — now it’s September 1 — still luxuriating in my clean, upholstered car. (If this sounds like overkill, I must remind you that the car had been just as dirty and dingy as I said in the first paragraph, and the seats were still covered with the ratty remains of some fake shearling crap I had put on an earlier car.)
Saturday morning I was awakened by a neighbor, calling to say that during the overnight thunder storm — you know what’s coming, right? — a tree limb had fallen and crushed the roof. (I live in suburban Philadelphia. Deciduous trees. Old. Tall.)
The car was totalled. (1985. Old. Crushed.)
The seat covers remained glass-free and dry, and are being given in tribute to the cousin who hooked me up with the car I bought yesterday, a 1991 diesel Mercedes into which the salesman put his wife’s sheepskin seat covers. (She doesn’t like them. Lunatic. God bless her.)
I owe you much thanks, even so. The ‘85 would still be whole had I not detailed and seat-covered it (same voodoo by which a newly-washed car makes it rain and a freshly-lit cigarette summons the overdue bus — or did, back in the day — don’t smoke any more, and don’t much take the bus, either). Fact is, I thank the tree each morning: The new [old] car is really quite wonderful, but I wouldn’t have replaced the ‘85 while it ran — no matter how the tired old air conditioning on the highway in August made me long to — and it had years and years of running left. And I can’t pretend that I don’t like sheepskin seat covers more than the ones you made me; unlike the car saleman’s wife (lunatic, god bless her), I think they’re delicious.
Whoever called to answer my questions was really nice, and very reassuring (I buy anything I can online, but that doesn’t mean I don’t worry about it). Your seat covers were not only much nicer than I expected; even without exceeding low expectations — they should not be damned by faint praise — they were nice. They were beautifully made and, for one short week, they brightened my car and my days and made me feel good. Any business I can send you I will send you.
Thank you very much.
J. S.
