In times of economic freefall, it can, of course, be a challenge to find ways to make ends meet, or at least see that your next meal is more than two saltines and a small bowl of Heinz mixed with water.

One of the more innovative?

It surely would have to be Mike Johnson's method of revenue enhancement.

"You wanna buy this ladder?" he asks.

It is a weekday, just past the morning rush in downtown Bloomington.

Up on Front Street, workers scurry into the Law and Justice Center and the city's legal district. On the square, State Farm workers are swiveling into their chairs at the company's 12-story downtown birthright.

And here on Center Street, near Market, virtually underneath downtown's so-called Eye-Full communications tower, stands Johnson.

He is 59 years old.

"Nah," I answer, having approached not out of need for home implements but simple curiosity. "But just how is the individual sale of used, paint-splattered ladders these days?"

As traffic whizzes past, screaming within feet of him, he is standing there, next to a well-worked wooden ladder with a "FOR SALE: $20" sign. His right foot rests on the ladder's lowest rung and a book he is reading - it wiles his time as he patiently waits for the next prospective buyer - is propped upon the next-to-top rung.

"On Monday," he says, "I'll have a small camping cook stove here if you're interested in that ..."

Yes, as high unemployment lingers, lines form at food kitchens and meal-money becomes an endangered species, Johnson is taking a more laissez-faire approach.

He has become a daily one-item garage sale - without a garage.

He moves each day, he says, to a different corner, to reach a larger audience.

He is selling everything in his home, he will tell you - well-worn item by well-worn item - day after day, because "even without much money, I have found I still like to eat."

Mike Johnson?

He has become an Antique Roadshow of sorts … in real life.

He speaks the language well. He does not look particularly destitute. He wears a nice White Sox shirt and natty Cardinals hat.

While you get the idea this is part-theatrics and Johnson is kind of enjoying himself, there is nonetheless an edge of desperation.

"I came down here, from Rockford, with a good job, an employee of a caterer/food service company that contracts with big companies like State Farm. But there were cutbacks. Now I can't seem to find anyone truly hiring … especially men my age. That's when it hit me - that if each day, if I sell just one item from my home …"

Yes for now, rather than gainful employment, Mike Johnson stands on street corners, reads books and sells off his life byproducts.

As one bystander puts it, in an odd way he also draws attention to something not routinely thought about in a white-collar, affluent, highly educated town where, even in a recession, the restaurants are full on Saturday night and hard times are more defined when places like Barnes & Noble and Victoria's Secret offer only "10%- off" during sales - that hunger and hardship exists here, too.

It's an awkward ladder to success.

Contact Bill Flick at flick@pantagraph.com.