Anne and I went to Las Vegas on Sunday for our friends Matt and Doree’s wedding. We got dressed up like fancy adults, spent an evening with people we love, and got the hell out of there before Vegas could take any of our money away from us.

I had a stupidly good time playing a silly Star Trek penny slot machine for a quarter a pull, and somehow managed to turn my twenty dollars into one hundred while I was at it. My friend Matt and I found a stupid penny poker machine that let you play one hundred hands at a time, and spent about three dollars to have hundreds of dollars worth of fun for close to an hour.

We almost didn’t go, because I just don’t enjoy being in Las Vegas, but we had a great time, and I’m really glad that we went.

On the plane home, I was reflecting on how much fun we had, and I remembered this story, from a very different time.

For a lot of us who grew up in Los Angeles, a big part of being in your early twenties involves something like this:

• The phone rings.
• It’s one of your friends.
• Your friend says, “Vegas?”
• Before you can pull another breath of life out of the air around you, you reply, “VEGAS!”
• One drive across the desert a few hours later, you’re in some casino on the strip, losing whatever money you budgeted for the trip, while trying and occasionally succeeding to find the energy that began your journey there, three or four hours ago.
• The drive back home lasts for three or four hours, but feels much longer.
• You swear you’ll never do this again.
• Months go by.
• You pick up the phone and dial your friend.
• When the call connects, you say, “Vegas?”

When Anne and I were dating, we did one of these trips. We stayed at the Imperial Palace, which is just an appallingly outdated and rundown pile of regret in the middle of the Strip. Over the course of a few hours, we walked around it and its adjacent casinos, wagering twenty or so dollars at a time in various places, and never winning a single thing. At the time, we didn’t have a lot of money and had to stay on a tight budget, so the $200 I lost really hurt, to say nothing of the unshakable feeling of just being A Total Loser that clung to me like that cloud of dust around Pig Pen.

I remember, as our night was winding down, we walked into the Flamingo Hilton. We found a $5 blackjack table, and I bought in for my last $40. As the first hand came out, a pit boss came over to us, and asked to see my ID. I showed it to him, and he said, “I thought that was you. I love your work.”

At this time in my life, I hadn’t done any acting work that was worth a goddamn in what felt like an eternity, but was probably close to five years on the calendar(which is an eternity in the entertainment industry). “Thanks,” I said, trying to put on my best happy face, and hoping that the stinky cloud of Loser wasn’t as clear to him as it was to me.

“How’s your night going?” He asked.

“Not good,” I said. “I have literally lost every dollar I’ve bet.”

Because the universe has a good sense of humor, and because the person who is writing my life is lazy, I lost the hand in front of me. I don’t recall what it was, specifically, but if I were writing this, it would have been something like standing on a 13 with the dealer showing a 6, only to draw to 18. It had been that kind of night.

“Well,” he said, “I’m rating you right now, so we can get you some drinks or some breakfast.”  He paused, then added, meaningfully, “at the very least.”

I looked at the last $35 dollars I had in front of me, and hoped against hope that somehow my luck would turn around. I knew we wouldn’t get a comped room, or show tickets, or anything like that, but there was something in his voice that told me that if I could just sit there and play for a little while, we’d get something that would make me feel like less of a total loser than I did. Hey, people got lucky in Vegas all the time, right? People sat down with two bucks, and became millionaires with one pull of the handle. Guys turned five bucks into a thousand in mere minutes, getting lucky at a craps table or hitting a longshot in roulette. Hell, people even won on Keno from time to time. Maybe it was time for my luck to turn around.

So I got ready to defy the odds and become a winner.

Five bucks at a time, I proceeded to lose seven hands in a row, and was broke. I stood up from the table, gathered what I could of my pride, told the dealer to have a good night. The pit boss came over to us (Anne had been standing supportively next to me the whole time, as I could not win a single thing, which was a perfect metaphor for our lives back then). “You sure you have to go?” He said.

“Yeah,” I said, unable to mask the totality of the defeat I was feeling, “I’m all out of money. My luck is just …” I didn’t need to finish that thought. At this time in my life, when I was probably around 24 or 25, My luck is just … was how I felt about pretty much everything.

“Well, here,” he said, not unkindly, “let me at least get you some food and a couple of drinks.” He gave me some vouchers, and Anne and I each had a martini, plus steak and eggs, on the house. We made our way back to our hotel room, fell asleep on a really uncomfortable bed, and slept for a few hours until someone woke us up, screaming in our hallway because she’d hit a jackpot on a slot machine.