My Career in the Spotlight

*Editor's Note: Spotlight Room's lease was recently renewed for six months, Lassiter reports.  

Stepping into the Spotlight some 20 years ago — a dark, hole-in-the-wall bar on the corner of Cahuenga and Selma in Los Angeles — I never guessed this place would change my life. I’d come to town to be a player in the movie business and wound up a bartender at Hollywood’s oldest gay watering hole. Some might consider those years misspent, but I count myself lucky that fate delivered me into a community that accepted and trusted me on faith alone.

On January 3 the Spolight shines for the last time. We’ve lost our lease after 47 years*. And while I mourn its passing, I’ll take the memories and laughter through the rest of my life. I may have missed out on the glitz and flash of the red carpet, but I was given a family of friends, and therein lies my tale.

Seemingly hopeless in my search for a job, I turned one day to see an old, rusty sign — “The Spotlight Room” in flickering neon.

Motivated more by curiosity than anything else, I just had to take a look inside. Not knowing whether it was a treasure chest or Pandora’s box, I pulled the door open. In the few seconds it took for my eyes to adjust, the scene became clear. I couldn’t believe it. The place was packed. It was standing room only, like Mardi Gras on New Year’s Eve. The jukebox blared at 10 decibels as a group of guys dressed as Marilyn and Cher danced in stilettos.

Well, slap my ass and call me Judy. I had wandered into a gay bar.

My first instinct was to walk away. But the spectacle was strangely compelling. It was like walking into a John Waters film. I inched my way through all the commotion and cologne and noticed that every little nook seemed to have its own theme. Off to one corner was a group of studious chaps. Books and newspapers covered their booth. Adjacent were the businessmen ... half a dozen suits all discussing the Dow. The back room housed all the sports enthusiasts — multicolored jerseys shooting pool and waxing philosophical about why their team would prevail. Surrounding the jukebox were the music connoisseurs — seemingly best friends grilling each other on the latest tunes all in the name of good taste.

What a curious little place, I thought. Working here would have to be the greatest acting class in town! Who cares what kind of bar it is. It’s packed at all hours and looks like fun. So I asked to see the manager, and the bartender directed me to a man in the corner. “His name is Don Samuels.” As I approached him, he looked right at me as though he knew I had just asked to see him. He looked like a Norman Rockwell grandpa who couldn’t refuse anyone. We spoke for only a minute or two, and I walked out with five shifts like it was divine intervention.