Exactly fifty-nine years ago, my dad, Bruce Rubenstein, graced the earth with his presence for the very first time.

Naturally, this anniversary calls for a celebration. So my parents, my brothers and I all pile into the car for the drive to dinner.

On the scale of uncomfortable events, the five of us in one vehicle falls high above telling someone their fly is open and just below passing a kidney stone. Limbs and aggressive comments fly every which way and Rachel Platten’s Fight Song on the radio provokes an unsolicited performance from the birthday boy, complete with never-before-heard lyrics.

Up above, perched on a cloud, a higher power decides that this episode of The Wild Thornberrys is getting a little dry, despite the pouring rain, and kicks it up a notch with standstill traffic on the highway.

Forty-five minutes later, we arrive at Ben’s Deli with hunger in our stomachs and coupons in our hands.

Everyone thinks out loud while scanning the menu and careful consideration is paid to coupon coordination. Though none of us want anything other than water to drink, two players must order a beverage in order for the team to receive one free entree. Ideas ranging from bottled water to cranberry juice are tossed around before, ultimately, my mom orders two drinks with the intention of mixing them together. Sly stuff.

This is as close to a drinking game as any of us have ever gotten.

When our waitress arrives with water, she places my dad’s glass on the table in such a way that it immediately tips over and spills onto his shorts.

The remainder of the meal consists of forks in each other’s plates and noses in each other’s business. And the general food consensus is that “it was better last time,” a phrase which I hear about eighteen times.

My mom downs her drinks like a champ, our shrunken bill arrives—a trophy of our efforts, and I race to the shotgun for the ride home. My mom squishes between my brothers in the back.

From the comfort of the front seat, the world sounds and looks very different than it does from the back. The rain is no longer noise adding to the arguments around me, but rather it muffles them. The drops on the window blur the endless stream of cars ahead and the rhythm of the windshield wiper relaxes me. I am no longer in a clown car.

I am just in a car with clowns.

To the biggest clown of all, who, fittingly, has been wearing a pair of shoes he bought two sizes too big, happy birthday.

Earlier today, I said to him, “In the eyes of our beloved labradoodle, Buddy, you have just turned four hundred and thirteen years old. If we were immortal, where would you want to be at that age?”

He replied, “Sitting courtside at game seven of a Knicks championship game, cheering on my favorite team for their first championship in four hundred and thirteen years.”