Pratt Daddy Is Dead

back when I knew spencer pratt

The first time Spencer Pratt walked into my work, nobody cared. This was 2018, I was a hostess at an upscale Mexican restaurant near the Palisades. A blonde guy cruised in wearing a tie-dye t-shirt, swiveling his sugar cube head like a hunted animal, ice blue eyes roaming.

It was early in the evening, so I sat him at a corner table. An act that might nod to a customer’s status, but the place was empty. I liked to fill that spot first. He spread his gray sweat shorts and locked eyes with his phone. A minute later, a platinum princess appeared before me, a bebe perched on her hip. Hi, she said, but no noise came out, just a twinkle of wind chimes, her aquamarine gaze flashing around the room. When her eyes landed on Spencer, she seemed to slip into midair and land by his side. I brought the bebe a high chair as Spencer swiveled his iPhone to frame his face from a high angle.

Back at the host stand, I marked the table 2 + Highchair. This part of my shift always went by so. slow. I grabbed the windex and polished the iPad screen, tile table, nearby window pane.

My manager strode up to my hip. He wore red vans to every shift, which always put me at ease.

Hey James. Can you check the name on that table with the blonde dude?

No they’re just a walk in.

One of the chefs said that’s Spencer Pratt.

Who?

I dunno…he said someone from The Hills.

We exchange empty glances. I google him on the iPad. An image pops up, a younger man with a halo of curly hair.

The bartender, a 24-year-old retired dancer from Las Vegas waves my manager over with an excited smile.

Yesss, that’s SPenCer and Heidi…you don’t know him??

Did he order anything to drink?

A super skinny Cadillac margarita…

This would become Spencer’s shtick whenever he came in. Instead of sitting down with his family, he’d strut to the bar and film himself ordering a drink. Pulling the phone close to his face, slinging it back, swooping it over to the bartender who knew to play along with the party atmosphere. Usually there was just one or two other people in the whole restaurant, because Speidi loved to come right when we opened. I guess it was better for bebe hours. They survived on steak, a cheese taco with beans and rice for the bebe and a salad for Heidi.

Instead of sequestering in the corner, they liked to set up at a table by the open kitchen. At first, I found this move strange. The stoves poured heat onto the nearby tables, work lights cast a bright yellow that made me squint as I walked by. When things were slow, the chefs would chat with each other through the large window, sometimes shouting over the steam and sizzling fat.

As the months pulsed on, I saw Spencer leaning on the turquoise tile, as the lead chef arranged the order tickets. He gave all the cooks Pratt Daddy necklaces, which many of them wore with pride. I’d run a special allergies ticket to the chef and duck under Spencer’s arm, whipping his phone 360, catching the kitchen while he sipped a Pratt Daddy Marg. We became a backdrop in his constant self-narrated story. A dynamic influencers know almost instinctually how to build and maintain with enough love so it doesn’t feel one-sided and fake.

Since we were a new restaurant, it was amusing to see what kind of crowd we would draw. Some of the neighbors hated us, simply because we weren’t the old restaurant. A smear campaign popped up on our google reviews in the first three months, people claiming, in so many words, that Mexican food had no right to be so expensive. One night, when the AC was overpowered by the sheer number of bodies in the bar, a man leaned into my face and said YOU WON’T BE POPULAR NEW LIKE THIS FOREVER AND THEN YOU’LL SEE.

Spencer didn’t seem to care about the prices. His vertical hummingbird videos were taking off. These slow-motion feats were captured on the deck of his Palisades home, Spencer standing very, very still with plastic flowers in his palm. There was something comical and hypnotizing about these clips: Spencer’s gatorade blue eyes, open half an inch too wide, holding an imitation flower with reverence. How long did he have to wait like that?

His Pratt Daddy crystals tied perfectly into this vibe. He amassed so much bad energy on reality TV, but the crystals must be doing something. He got a house with the views, he held on to the beautiful wife. They even had a bubbly son? Which rock on a leather rope do I buy first?

At the time, Spencer was building his instagram and followed me. Follow for follow, just like the old days. Seeing him like my posts felt like taking my work home with me. Clips of SPENCER PRATT WILL HEAL YOU floated across my feed, a show on MTV where Spencer takes Josh Ostrovsky to equine therapy, Perez Hilton to an energy worker to cut ties with his past and Jay Versace to naked yoga. Chill Spencer was working to replace Villain Spencer, negotiating a donkey around an obstacle course, speaking in low calm tones, announcing things he wanted to overcome like too much time on the internet.

Attention looked good on Spencer. He’d walk into the restaurant with an air of purpose, scanning the room for a free space to film. For his birthday, he booked the small patio adjacent to the bar for a handful of friends. Someone brought a three tired cake with purple candy on the side, evoking an amethyst geode. When he cut the cake, an avalanche of candy crystals spilled out. He posted a video of him sliding his hand in and out of the cake, perhaps in a sexual manner? The vibe was unclear.

Heidi smiled through it all. Their souls were linked by fate. Sacrifices were made for this union. I wonder how Heidi survived on reality TV, where speaking is usually required. Spencer created spectacle wherever he went, he was working for every eyeball, every minute of attention. Whether he wanted to be famous for the fame of it, or wanted to be famous for the money, I’ll never know. I think at a certain point, his resume simply read Reality TV Villain, and people don’t like to buy merch from villains at the craft pop up.

News made its way to the hostess desk, they’re rebooting The Hills. Spencer and Heidi were going to shoot a scene here, sitting on the patio. I would be their server, even though I was the newest server and hated serving. The chef wanted to get their order just right, every slice of steak pretty for the cameras. I felt sick when I walked into the filming zone, the small outdoor area crowded with lights and cameras. The producers told me to act normal, they’re your regulars, right? So just have fun.

HELLO, how are YOU GUYS today??? I winced at my own delivery.

Hey, how are you, yeah we’ll just get the steak and the salad. This is our big date, our first night out with someone watching the baby.

Oh. I see. How wonderful!

This epic plot point was all Spencer and Heidi had for this scene. I’m not a baby person, so I didn’t have much to say.

The chef freaked about their small order, saying we should send more food. I didn’t see the point, but I brought out a free guacamole and radishes. I twisted between the lighting fixtures carrying the plates—to everyone’s dismay, this wasn’t part of the plan.

On THE HOUSE! I shouted, as though acting in a play.

I was over the moon when the bartender asked if she could personally deliver their drinks. I watched as she laughed and smiled with all her teeth. She was meant for this.

A producer whispered in my ear hold on the rest of the food. I scurried over to the chef who was tidying their plates.

No! The steak is warm now.

I don’t know, the producers…I don’t think they really care…

There was some commotion on the patio, Heidi was prancing between the lights, the camera man weaving through the bar to follow her. Spencer gulped down his Pratt Daddy Marg before running after her.

The chef’s face sunk as looked at his meticulous salad work. Maybe we should’ve offered them to-go?

Later we’d learn they never really intended to eat. They came to leave. Heidi had to rush home, too worried about the bebe to enjoy herself. This scene was debuting the new, family friendly Speidi.

It would be months before they came through our doors again. Something had changed, Spencer seemed heavy with a new responsibility. Questions loomed. Would this show pop off? If it failed, what would be next for our duo?

The last time we heard from Spencer, he ordered a burrito to-go, despite the fact that we didn’t make burritos. The kitchen did their best approximation, rolling out larger corn tortillas, but the project was doomed. Spencer called my manager on his office line, voicing his grave disappointment. A year of regular dinners and jovial drinking, amounted to nothing. Just like The Hills Reboot and Pratt Daddy crystals.

The pandemic allowed Spencer to build his personal brand for a new generation of tiktokers and now we have Spencer the Mayoral Candidate, looking coke bloated in approachable politician drag. To jog some of my Spencerial memories, I watched SPENCER PRATT WILL HEAL YOU on YouTube and found myself longing for a simpler time.

For once, Heidi isn’t at his side. She’s living with the kids in Spencer’s father’s rental home. 90 minutes north of LA, in Carpenteria. I have a feeling that’s what hurts Spencer the most.

People like to call Spencer dumb, full stop. I fear we’re missing something when we do that. Spencer has an innate sense of how to manifest a spectacle. Everywhere he goes, he builds shows where he’s the star, sniffing out problems to make into a party. Unfortunately for us, Chill Spencer’s house burned down in a fire. Chill Spencer can’t come to the phone right now. Chill Spencer is dead. He’s back in villain mode, fighting what he calls demonic entities that are representing themselves as city officials with an AI reality at his fingertips.

Spencer has had nothing to lose for a long, long while. Now that he’s running for mayor, he can finally be honest about that.

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