Useless Knowledge

Scene: A forgotten train platform on the edge of nowhere. A single bench half-swallowed by weeds, a cracked vending machine with three flickering lights, and a timetable board that hasn’t changed since… well, possibly ever. A pigeon walks along the yellow safety line like it’s patrolling. Somewhere far off, a freight train wails, but nothing moves here except the occasional gust of wind and the two women talking.

Nettle:

“You ever think about how some facts are basically decorative? Like… knowledge with no nutritional value? I read once that wombat poop is cube-shaped. I’ve carried that around for years like it’s going to save me in a crisis.”

Tarrow:

(stares at the vending machine)

“I suppose it could. If the crisis was, say… a trivia night in a bunker.”

Nettle:

“Exactly. That’s what I mean. Stuff that’ll never pay rent in your brain, but you keep feeding it snacks anyway.”

Tarrow:

(quiet for a moment, still watching the vending machine like it might confess something)

“So, in your mind, there’s a category for ‘homeless facts.’ Just wandering around, knocking on the inside of your skull?”

Nettle:

“Yeah. Wearing little ragged coats. One of mine is that you can’t burp in space. Not naturally. Astronauts have to… manage it.”

Tarrow:

(slow turn toward her)

“You know that because…?”

Nettle:

“I saw a headline. Didn’t click. Felt like the title was enough.”

Tarrow:

(nods)

“That’s another layer. Useless knowledge you didn’t even verify. Schrödinger’s fact—you carry it like it’s true, but it could be absolute nonsense.”

Nettle:

“Which makes it better. If I knew for sure, it would just be information. But this way, it’s like a dare.”

Tarrow:

(tilts her head toward the timetable board)

“That thing still lists a train called ‘The Dawn Rider.’ It’s been fifty years since anyone’s ridden anything from here. But the board insists. I wonder if that counts as useless knowledge… or just lying quietly.”

Nettle:

“Oh, that’s pure vintage useless knowledge. Even comes with props.”

Tarrow:

(sits back, eyes half-closed)

“I think it’s different. That’s more like… sentimental knowledge. The kind that survives because no one had the heart to erase it.”

Nettle:

“That’s dangerously close to saying it has value.”

Tarrow:

“Maybe it does. Uselessness isn’t absence of value—it’s just value no one’s currently using.”

Nettle:

(frowning)

“That’s how hoarders talk.”

Tarrow:

“And archivists.”

Nettle:

(long pause, then pointing subtly at a man standing by the far wall)

“That guy’s been staring at the trash can for ten minutes. Not looking inside. Just… at it.”

Tarrow:

(quietly, as if studying a rare bird)

“Maybe he’s appreciating the design. Or silently judging what it’s had to endure.”

Nettle:

“Or he knows the trash can’s real name and is waiting for it to wake up.”

Tarrow:

“That would be very useful knowledge for him. Completely useless for us.”

Nettle:

“Unless the trash can wakes up angry. Then we’ll wish we’d learned its name.”

Tarrow:

(half-smiling)

“You’re making the case for universal education now.”

Nettle:

“No, I’m making the case for carrying a bunch of bizarre mental pocket knives. You never know which one will cut the right string.”

Tarrow:

“And you’re sure that’s not just… clutter?”

Nettle:

“It’s only clutter if it doesn’t make you smile unexpectedly. Like right now—I’m picturing that trash can wearing a little crown.”

Tarrow:

(long silence, then)

“…That is better.”

Nettle:

“See? Useless knowledge is basically emotional insurance. One day, you’re bored on a dead train platform, and suddenly you’re thinking about cube-shaped wombat poop and royal trash cans, and life feels… not terrible.”

Tarrow:

(soft laugh)

“Fine. But if I start carrying facts about, say, the mating habits of jellyfish, you can’t call me pretentious.”

Nettle:

“No promises. Depends on how you use them.”

Tarrow:

“I’ll use them to win an argument about the adaptability of life in hostile environments.”

Nettle:

“…Okay, that’s actually kind of brilliant.”

Tarrow:

“So we agree—useless knowledge is only useless until you find its stage.”

Nettle:

“And the trick is, the stage is usually absurd.”

Tarrow:

“Which is why you love it.”

Nettle:

“Exactly. And why you’ll never convince me to throw out the mental box labeled ‘Absolutely No Reason to Know This.’”

Tarrow:

“…Fair. But I’m still not memorizing the trash can’s name.”

Nettle:

“That’s fine. I’ll do it for you.”

(Ten minutes later.)

The man who’d been staring at the trash can finally moves. Not toward the exit, but toward Nettle and Tarrow—slow, deliberate steps, like a predator who’s read too many etiquette manuals.

Man:

“Excuse me… either of you own… that?”

(he points at the trash can)

Tarrow:

“…Own? No. We were just… discussing its sovereignty.”

Man:

“It’s making noises.”

Nettle:

(sits up)

“What kind of noises?”

Man:

“Like… clicking. And… breathing? In bursts.”

Tarrow:

(standing slowly)

“That’s not breathing. That’s pressure release.”

Nettle:

(turns to her)

“You know that how?”

Tarrow:

“I once read that certain vents use rhythmic bursts to—”

Nettle:

“See? This is why we keep useless knowledge. Now we know it’s not possessed, just… possibly explosive.”

Man:

“Possibly explosive?”

Tarrow:

(tilts head, calm as ever)

“Or it’s an animal. Could be a wombat.”

Nettle:

“Not here. Wrong continent.”

Tarrow:

“Still cube-shaped poop.”

Nettle:

“Which means it could be building a wall in there.”

Man:

“…I’m calling someone.”

Nettle:

“No, wait. If it’s pressure, we just have to—”

(she crouches beside the trash can, taps twice on the side)

“This is going to sound ridiculous, but astronauts in zero-gravity—”

Tarrow:

(softly)

“Oh, no.”

Nettle:

“—can’t burp normally. Same principle applies to trapped air in enclosed containers.”

Tarrow:

“…You’re going to burp the trash can.”

Nettle:

“Exactly.”

She leans down, presses the lid release in a slow, controlled way. A long hiss escapes, followed by a surprisingly polite pop. The clicking stops.

Man:

(staring)

“…That worked?”

Tarrow:

(deadpan)

“She’s the reason trivia nights have insurance policies.”

Nettle:

(grinning)

“And the reason you’re not wearing trash-can shrapnel right now.”

The man backs away without another word, vanishing into the station’s shadow.

Tarrow:

(sitting back down)

“So. Wombats, astronauts, and venting pressurized bins. All in one day.”

Nettle:

“Tell me again how useless knowledge is useless.”

Tarrow:

(quiet for a moment)

“…Fine. But I still think you just got lucky.”

Nettle:

“Luck is just useless knowledge with timing.”