Every Thursday, Supreme releases new pieces, and lines form outside all of its stores in advance of 11 a.m., the time the doors open as well as when the products appear on the website (always in local geographic time). This is The Drop. It's Supreme's mechanism of exclusivity; rather than debut its latest work once a season, it drips out continuously, like morphine through an IV. Each week brings a new set of logoed shirts, shorts, tees, hats, and accessories. 2016 will see, among many other things, Supreme basketballs, sunglasses, bolt cutters, Everlast punching bags, and camping chair sets.

The original Supreme store on Lafayette Street sits behind an anonymous glass facade differentiated only by a small logo sticker on the door. On a recent Thursday morning, the Drop line comprises hundreds of people stretched around three sides of a block for a collaboration with the UK skate brand Anti Hero. Though fans sometimes camp (the official term) for days on end, the chaos this time is tightly managed by metal barriers. Those at the head of the line are given wristbands and watched over by a quartet of bouncers several times larger than any prospective customer, who skew young and wiry. They have no problem with letting someone out for a quick bathroom break.

The store's metal gate goes up at 10 a.m. Collective desire charges the air, but the scene feels decidedly PG-13, and not just because of the age of the fans. The vibe is safe, secure, almost wholesome — like waiting in line for a roller coaster. "I like the kids, it's the adults I don't like," one bouncer says. At the front, buyers in their late teens fan out rolls of cash containing $800 or $1,000, the better to grab a bunch of drops and resell them, or buy for their patrons who'd rather not wait in line and keep a little for themselves.

A little farther back, fans are more likely to be buying just for themselves. Arbaz Qureshi, a student from Bed Stuy, brought a backpack of snacks for his brother, who had been standing in line for hours on the other side of the barriers. "I told him I'd bless him up. Pringles, chips, Chips Ahoy, Gatorade, a care package," Qureshi says. Does he ever wait on line himself? "I don't like this Supreme, I like the old Supreme, that's why I don't camp out. They're pretty repetitive now." He mostly buys from Grailed, the online streetwear market named for the slang for a particularly lusted-after product. "I feel like Supreme is so herbed out now," Qureshi says. (Herb: someone who follows trends.) "You see 13-year-old kids waiting on line. It's cool though, I'm not a hater."

Mike, a 33-year-old who goes by Meezy, shows up to the line almost every Thursday, though it's hard for him to stand without the aid of a cane. He's collected most of this season's Supreme. He buys for himself, he says, ever since seeing the brand while in high school on the Lower East Side. Things are different now. "It's a lot of resellers, that's what you see more. Back then it was people who wanted it for themselves. That's the only thing that sucks." Morgan, another student, succeeds in buying a T-shirt through the website while he waits. It's a two-pronged strategy. "Sometimes when we get in they don't have our color, don't have our size, so we try to get it online," he says.

As time wears on after 11 a.m. and fans trickle into the store via a bouncer-regulated one-in-one-out policy, the New York Drop splits itself into two camps, the fans and the resellers. The former sometimes turn into the latter after emerging from the store. Resellers assemble themselves across Lafayette, stacking product on the trunks of cars and calling out prices. It's the official economy versus the black market. "The sheep that strays from the flock becomes the goat," says Racks Hogan, who paces around the reseller arena. Is he the goat? "Yeah, that's why I got banned."