The Hollywood, Florida,

"Lost all my money, man. She's gonna kill me," he said, shaking his head but also laughing. I chuckled back, not really knowing what else to do, curious as to where this conversation would lead. "Well, what are you going to tell her?" I responded, as we walked side by side.

Im'a tell her I got robbed. If I do that, she won't get mad, she'll say "What happened, baby?" and I'll say "No need to call the police, I was in the wrong place" and she's gonna say "Where'd you go?" and I'm gonna say "I was trying to buy some weed and they robbed the fucking weed man," because she knows I smoke weed.

It was 5:30 p.m. on a beautiful Friday afternoon, and this was my first introduction to the casinos of Hollywood, Florida. This conversation occurred only because I was walking back to my car to retrieve my ID. After a long week, all I wanted to do was withdraw a little money, play about 30 minutes of blackjack, and then be on my way. Walking into the Seminole Casino, that seemed like a realistic goal.

I was the youngest person in the casino by 30 years. Easily. Weaving through slot machines, I glared in wonderment — Why were these people here? — and those who looked up from their games reciprocated. How long had they been sitting in this cigarette-smoke fog machine of a room? And how long would they stay?

Finally reaching the $10 blackjack table, the lowest possible buy-in, I asked permission of the table's two participants if I could join. The older woman, a glamorously weathered Blanche Devereaux, nodded positively, just as a puff of smoke briefly made her face disappear. The man next to her didn't acknowledge my question, because he was staring at the televisions above.

All of the televisions were on Pacific Time. I couldn't help but laugh at that blatant act of disorientation and smart card. Regardless, as $70 in chips were pushed my way, I gave myself a time limit: 15 minutes. Once that TV said 3:00 p.m. PT, I was standing up, cashing out, and leaving.

Fifteen minutes later, I did just that. And after a chips-for-cash transaction, I walked out of the Seminole Casino toward my car, $100 richer. What a solid afternoon.

In my gambling history, which is not long but most certainly not positive, never had I shown anything resembling self-restraint. If I won, the assumption was that it was "my day," and if I lost, the assumption was that, eventually, on that day, it would become "mine." I'd thought this way because I tend to assume things will work out for me in the end.

I didn't know what to make of my cab driver's statement, but apparently he thought my target demographic was 75-year-old women. Maybe it was my Hawaiian shirt, an attempt to blend in with the older crowd. Regardless, through some combination of cabin fever and it being "my day," it was now 12:10 a.m. and I was getting a lift back to the casino.

This was Hollywood, Florida's night club. Most of those present were overdressed by way of being comically underdressed, the energy was high, the lights were bright, and "For Those About to Rock (We Salute You)" was blaring. Again, I felt out of place in a casino, but it wasn't age this time — now I was all alone. This was very much a couples scene or a breeding ground for large, rowdy groups celebrating some life event.

Not enjoying myself in the slightest, I wandered, aimlessly, looking for an open blackjack table. Nothing was available. I began to notice my movements had caught the attention of two employees. Assuming this would end with my getting thrown in a dumpster, never to be seen again, I spotted the exit and left.

In a matter of hours, the Seminole Casino had changed. Drastically. Yes, it looked the same on the outside and the crowd within still leaned older, but instead of quiet and borderline-depressing, it was now bustling.

A great deal of thanks for that change goes to the cover band loudly performing jams inside. As I walked in, it was "Too Close" by Next, which bled nicely into a string of Prince hits that got quite a few slot players out of their seats to dance.

I walked straight to my blackjack table with confidence and exchanged my previous winnings for chips. My tablemates this time were two brothers in their fifties, one who did not speak and the other a source of commentary on every single thing that was happening. Everything.

There was his disgust over not getting drinks comped, there was the time he almost got into a fight after hitting on 14 when the dealer had 13, and there was the time he came into a casino with $25 and left with a grand.

I said nothing to him, but my head was constantly nodding in approval of everything he said. When a man and woman walked over and joined us about 45 minutes in, the gentleman in the couple lost his first three hands. His response to his subpar gameplay: "I always bust when I sit over here."