✨ The Day Steven Spielberg’s Chimney Saved My Life
By Jim St. James
Back in 1987–88, during my time working at Universal Studios, I had one of those only-in-Hollywood experiences you never forget — the kind that becomes part of your personal mythology, whether you want it to or not.
At the time, Amblin Entertainment — Steven Spielberg’s headquarters — was located on the front lot of Universal. It was a beautiful little complex, warm and welcoming, with immaculate landscaping, quiet courtyards, and nannies caring for employees’ children as they played outside. It felt more like a small creative village than a studio office.
Oddly enough, the gardening crew for Amblin had a reputation on the lot:
> If you weren’t Italian, you pretty much had no shot at getting hired there.
It was one of those strange bits of studio folklore that everyone knew and accepted. The long-time contract gardener was an older Italian gentleman, a Universal fixture who had held that assignment for years. And when he went on vacation, the studio labor foreman, Ward Lathrope, needed someone to fill in.
Ward looked at me — an Italian — and said:
“You’re going to Amblin.”
Just like that, I had one of the most coveted gardening jobs on the entire lot if not in southern California.
My first day felt almost surreal. I showed up early, ready to prove myself. I watered the flower beds, tended the lawns, and walked the grounds — and there, right in the middle of it all, was Steven Spielberg himself, moving in and out of the offices like any other employee. He was kind, approachable, and as normal as someone of his stature could be.
Before long, his staff asked me to take care of the leaves clogging the gutters on the Amblin roof. That Mr. Spielberg had been wanting this done.
Under normal circumstances, that was no big deal. The roof wasn’t flat, but it wasn’t treacherous either — a gentle slope, shaded by huge magnolia trees whose thick leaves were the main culprits.
I climbed up with my tools and got to work.
About an hour in, something strange happened.
My legs suddenly felt weak — rubbery — like they might give out. I felt disoriented, almost dizzy, as if someone had pulled the ground out from under me. In that moment, I genuinely thought I might be having some kind of medical episode.
Before I could understand what was happening, the roof began to move.
Not dramatically — but just enough to throw off my balance.
I lost my footing and nearly slid off the edge, straight toward the metal trash hopper I’d been dumping leaves into below. Instinct kicked in. I reached out blindly, grabbed hold of the chimney coming up from the building, and wrapped my legs and arms around it like it was the only solid thing in the world.
A few seconds later… everything stopped.
The dizziness faded. The roof steadied. My legs returned.
I crawled slowly — carefully — across the shingles, reached the ladder, climbed down, and sat on the edge of a concrete planter, trying to catch my breath.
Right then, the Amblin staff — a group of women who’d seen the whole thing — came running out of the building shouting,
“Are you okay?!”
I nodded, still confused.
They said,
“Thank God. That was a 3.9 earthquake centered in the Valley. We thought you were going to fall!”
I had never been in an earthquake before.
I had no idea what one even felt like.
What I thought was a medical emergency was actually the earth rolling under my feet.
Suddenly everything made sense — the weak legs, the strange sensation, the loss of balance.
And all I could think was:
I almost fell off the roof of Amblin Studios during an earthquake!
Needless to say, the next morning I requested a different assignment. As great as that job was — and it truly was a cushy, once-in-a-lifetime studio gig — I wasn’t about to tempt fate with another tremor. They reassigned me to a strike crew that very day, tearing down the Back to the Future sets on Universal's courthouse square.
But that moment stays with me.
A near fall.
My first earthquake.
Spielberg walking the lot.
And me — a 27-year-old kid — clinging to a chimney like my life depended on it.
Because that day at Universal Studios,
it did, as that was the day that Steven Spielberg’s chimney saved my life.