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The height of the hype about the Apple iPhone — which goes on sale for the first time here at 6 o'clock Friday evening — was the AT&T memo about crowd control.

The iPhone, after all, has been the most anticipated device in the history of the wireless industry since Steve Jobs, the founder of Apple, revealed the prototype to the public last January. But AT&T, Apple's partner and the only system on which the iPhone works, was anticipating something more: huge and unruly lineups when "the Jesus phone" (as it's often called on the Internet) finally went on sale this evening. So AT&T released an internal memo this week, advising store managers on the finer points of crowd control.

Alas, as of lunch Thursday, there were exactly 14 people lined up at Apple's glamorous flagship store at 767 Fifth Avenue. At Manhattan's other outlet, in Soho, seven people were waiting on line. But this being New York, the hustler capital of the most commercialized nation in history, not all of them are exactly "customers."

In Manhattan, where you can see a half a dozen cellphones in use at any intersection, and where your cellphone is a big part of who you are, the most successful viral marketing campaign in history has taken on a life and several viruses of its own.

The hype has been astonishing. According to surveys, 20 per cent of Americans — some 40 million people — are already interested in buying an iPhone, sight unseen. More than 11,000 articles — 61 a day — have been written about the gizmo in the past six months. Google turns up 81 million hits.

On eBay, entrepreneurs are asking $1,000 for the rights to even distantly related domain names, such as my-iphone.com. Meanwhile, Apple's stock has popped up 35 per cent since January.

All this for the as-of-yet untouchable Holy Grail of info-tech, the all-in-one device — a combination smart phone, video player, iPod, camera, Internet browser, organizer, status symbol and chick magnet (although an admittedly elegant one that uses a touch-sensitive glass screen instead of buttons). It's not cheap, either: The iPhone retails for between $500 and $600 (U.S.), not including the rate plan.

Even so, Mr. Jobs hopes to unload 10 million iPhones in the first year — one per cent of the one billion mobile phones sold globally every year. If he can do that, he really is Jesus. Today he has been more fallible: While his successes are legendary, his flops include the Cube, the Newton and the ROKR, Apple's first cellphone venture with Motorola. Several failed because they were too pricey. Meanwhile, Apple's cut of a $500 iPhone was recently estimated by an outside study to be $80 a phone.

The much-vaunted lineup, such as it is, runs south from the two-storey glass cube that serves as the entrance to the famous store at 767 Fifth Avenue. All the early birds have camp chairs. It's hot, low 30s: the heat warps up off the sidewalks and breathes around corners like a dragon, the way it does only in Manhattan. At least half a dozen TV cameras are filming the lineup — as is Apple, to produce a time-lapse movie of the lineup for its website. This is called hyping the hype.

No. 1 in line is Greg Packer, a 43-year-old "retired highway-maintenance worker." He's been here since 5 a.m. Monday, 110 hours before the iPhone goes on sale. No one else showed up until midway through the afternoon.

But Mr. Packer's not the thin, bespectacled techno-wanker you expect. He doesn't even own a computer. (Which is a problem — once purchased, the iPhone has to be activated online through the owner's iTunes account.)

What Mr. Packer is, as some of his colleagues in line have dubbed him, is "a professional No. 1." He's famous for being first in line at public spectacles. He was first in line when the public viewing platform opened at Ground Zero; first to sign the condolence book after the death of Princess Diana; first in line to see George Bush inaugurated. He's met three presidents and Ringo Starr, and even has a (long) Wikipedia entry in his name.

He's been mentioned in so many news stories, Associated Press has banned any more interviews. People who really care about the iPhone are outraged that he's the line leader: In the past few days on the website digg.com, more than 600 people have taken issue with everything from Mr. Packer's body odour (which is noticeable) to his gut (ditto). His rare supporters see him, on the other hand, as a commentary on the gullibility of the press.

At the moment, he's shirtless, to display his round and hairy belly for morning TV. Littered around him are the provisions for his five-day techno-vigil: two camp chairs, a small New York Jets bag of clothes, an umbrella, an entire box of Kettle gourmet potato chips, and a large bag of Flava Puff Cheese Balls.

He uses the bathroom in the Apple store (the store's open 24 hours a day, another brilliant form of promotion). The store's clerks have been wearing black T-shirts that say "Friday 29 The Wait is Almost Over" and iPhone shaped neck tags that bear their first names.

Still, Mr. Packer says — and he should know — "of all the things I've been to, I've never seen this much hype."

No. 2? David Clayman. Thin, young (23), bespectacled (in a groovy ironic way), somewhat hesitant, he's Mr. Packer's opposite; their relationship could be a Broadway play.

Mr. Clayman decided on a whim to get an iPhone for his father's 50th birthday. But when he was approached to give up his place in line in return for a $200 donation to a charity, he decided to buy a second iPhone (the limit per customer is two). He plans to sell it on eBay and give the proceeds to Taproot, a foundation that connects business professionals with pro-bono organizations. Taproot, in return, gave everyone in line a Taproot T-shirt. They all wore them, too.

"I'm not here to be first," Mr. Clayman says, though he has been blogging about his iPhone adventure. "Isn't it what we're all here for — getting involved in something larger than ourselves?"

In fact, it isn't until you get to No. 8 that you encounter someone who actually knows a lot about computers — Vincent Nguyen, 32, a professional blogger and technology analyst http://Myitablet.com out of Scottsdale, Ariz.

Mr. Nguyen is a serious technophile: he was at the iPhone launch last January, has met Steve Jobs, believes the iPhone is everything it has been hyped to be; the first time someone has "taken the existing technology and brought it together in one device."

Which isn't to say he's not also selling. Mr. Nguyen has handed out T-shirts numbered one to 10 to the first 10 people in line. They're emblazoned with the name of one of the sponsors of Mr. Nguyen's website. Hype begets hype, and hopefully hype squared will beget some traffic to his blog.

But this is uptown, the land of bland and blend, not far from the UN. People up here can afford to co-operate.

Downtown, at the Apple store on Prince Street in Soho, the lineup scene is more bohemian, and more territorial. Down here, no one leaves their chair empty for a moment.

The first spot here is controlled by a revolving cast of 12 volunteers for the charity Keep a Child Alive. They too plan to auction their phone on eBay for their cause.

It's the rest of the line that's more telling, dominated by three local specialists in hype.

Tom Ryan, a 40-year-old "in real estate," took up his spot after advertising his services as a spot-sitter on the Internet website Craigslist. He had 12 offers, and settled on $500 from "some woman."

"But if I do buy an iPhone," he says, "I have a Japanese guy who'll buy it from me for $1,500. He wants to be the first among his friends to own an iPhone."

He's saying this to David Randall, his next-door neighbour in line, a former piano tuner now on disability and welfare, whose real love is writing poetry. Mr. Randall is 53 and looks a lot like Franz Liszt, except much, much more intense. He's holding a spot for a guy named Kurt; they haven't decided what to do with it, partly because he's been gone so long eating dinner. They figure he may have met a woman. "He's good with the chicks," Mr. Randall explains, "but then he starts to think they're after him with a knife."

Mr. Randall is not surprised by the iPhone hustles. "This sort of thing happens all the time in New York. I don't do this sitting in line normally, though. I'm holding the spot for a true professional."

"You're a warrior!" This is Joe MacMaster. He's lounging on a deck chair and wearing a T-shirt that says Crime Pays. It's good for the TV cameras. Next to him on the sidewalk is a prominent list: "condoms beer cigs," — things he needs, and a conversation starter with passing girls. Yes: waiting in line for the first iPhone turns out to be a great way to meet people.

Mr. MacMaster plans to sell his place in line to the highest bidder when the line gets serious on Friday: He's homeless and wants $500.

What Mr. Randall is hoping for most out of his iPhone vigil, however, is some publicity for a poem he wrote. The poem is called My Youngest Child. It's a very good poem, about walking with his daughter through lower Manhattan to buy school supplies, "some more of those precious stains and colours."

"Is it on the Internet?" someone asks.

"Of course not!" he shouts again. "It's for sale! For one million dollars! I want it to be the first poem sold at Starbucks. And it's for women."

Just then three women in their twenties walk by, astonished that people are lining up for days to buy even a piece of genius like the iPhone. Mr. MacMaster calls out after them. But apparently they are deaf and he is invisible.

"Ha," Mr. Ryan says. "He's trying to kill three birds with one iPhone."

Up at the American Museum of Natural History, the main exhibit these days is "Mythical Creatures: Dragons, Unicorns and Mermaids." Until six o'clock tonight, they could have included the iPhone.